I love threads and scissors. I love to pull thread off the spool and to make these little matted nests of color. I like how the thread is soft, how from a distance it looks like hair or an insect or stems.

Mist in the morning and walking through the air is like a very shallow swim. No rain, only humidity that comes in a gray hug.

The sand at the beach is higher. It is high enough to cover the anchor that was my landmark on the beach. "I will walk to the anchor," I'd say to myself. Now I walk to where I remember the anchor is, only I can't see it because it us under all this sand. I would not know this if I saw the beach for the first time now. This may seem banal, but it helps me understand something about history, and language, and what we might mean by "tracks."

I like to think of text as tracks. I am remembering fewer dreams. I think most of my rem sleep happened between 8 and 10 am. Of course I no longer sleep during these hours -- not even on the weekend.

I played with a kitten the other day. A little gray kitten with tender teeth and paws.

I like the word vibrissa. This text has whiskers.