My brain used to leave little seeds of thought lying in corners, alleyways, et cetera. They were attached to my neurons by the finest spaghetti, which would stretch as I walked away. In my absence, the seeds fused to the molecules around them, restructuring them like a crystal of ice-nine dropped in a glass, and when I returned I always found something waiting for me: perhaps a grotesque flower with a finger growing out of the center, or a brain divided into square cross sections and mixed up like a handheld puzzle. Unfortunately, these strands have been fused together, incinerated, and tangled up by my present way of life. My hope for this journal is to rebore that scabbed-over hole in the back of my head from which the thought-seeds once spilled.


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