studying the floor: jump, then kneel, place your cheek against it, smash it with your lips and feel how asphalt crumbles in your mouth. there is a stored climate in the ground: thousands of afternoon heats and millions of drops of rain, feet that struck their rhythm into it, the small violences of daily life β heels, wheels, the drag of a cart with junk being pulled somewhere. the floor is an archive of pressure. on this floor I was a child running, a body falling, a girl dancing, a woman who dropped a suitcase in anger β pressure is pressure, and the floor only bears it.
when you kneel, your spine curves; when you lie down, your organs rearrange themselves. the body becomes honest at ground level. it cannot pretend to be taller than it is. and oh I love gravity that make us closer.
the dust at eye level, the sharp smell of crosswalk paint, the faint tremor of passing traffic. the floor never adjusts
I feel I feel I feel too much I feel nothing at all I watch stupid videos I put my blush on I eat strawberry ice cream I bleed I clean my room I make a mess I go to the same coffee shop I wash my clothes too often I hate to hang it I jump fifty times everyday I roll I smoke I write I explode I feel pressure in my neck I procrastinate I hyper-fixate I feel I see I squish my hair I jerk off I crunch my apple I talk all the time I go upstairs I go downstairs I smile I cry I collect things I know the void I learn physics I turn on music I put lotion on my feet I take shiitake supplements I do I do do I?
*the letter I comes ninth, suggesting sequence
