I agree it’s hard to make a life here. The song doesn’t live past seven folds, stays gaslit. Someone gives the drunks in the park a harmonica; imagine that spell. Of all songs, to land on caroling. Of all songs, its winter may soon kill me. One more wrong key, and my neighbor will be hanging out the window again, all red screams. Possessed, I move every piece of furniture in the apartment until my pacing changes its shape, spinning, bewildered even— a Scheherazade in ruins. I was evolving, I was taking it personally.