There's a small space, a mosquito dipping his body in the sweat droplet on the tip of your nose. He wets his long nose and belly of blood, opens his wings and travels the shape of your cornice. Over around, up and in a circle; you wipe at the little pools with a heavy hand, pushing the thick air like honey in a lake. The mosquito is a fish swimming along the rapids in your face, on the swell of your lips and the shallow dip below your nose. You quiet, stilling and the sky darkens, though I guess that's your mood and how the space behind your eyelids is turning fuzzy and dark like the shadows surrounding a hazy eclipse. Last night, you dreamt about the past and the faces you have been tired for, forgetting and toothpaste on your tongue; on your teeth. Toothpaste means preparing. It means everything you've thought you've been talking about, though you keep telling yourself and you know nowadays, You don't have a clue what you're saying. Powerful words, powerful ideas; that's what you're trying to weave with thin hands and cracking wrists. You should have slept more last night. There's three week old nail polish at the base of your hands; I guess writing takes more than it creates, more than it warrants, more than is noticed or seen or appreciated, but we're not really about that. Pretty in pink and glitter on your thumbs; there's sweat dripping off your neck and through the stitches of your shirt; sweet sweet sweet. Sweaty thighs, sweaty spine, a soft rain; or maybe it's a torrent. You learned about tsunamis and about this bodys' composition, layered horizontally, vertically broken and with man made intrusions. Could that be-loss and grief and misery-a long angular quartz in your infrastructure, right at the base of your neck. It's covered over with a thin lace of cotton; how ordinary. You're always repeating; Dressed up as life. We are all just-Dressed, as life. You're thinking about evil and the essence of it, where it derives and what it looks like. That tired feeling you get in a sea of blankets is mounting. There, the mosquito, tap dances across your brow like a stage, hair light and dark and out of place. Tap, tap; leaving a rusty trail. Rust; you are musing or maybe confusing what you set out to do anyway. Ha, you're always doing that; simple mistakes, common, ordinary. You're just like the Earth; inhabited and exisiting; what else can land do but be lived on. What else can a river do besides flow: One very ordinary girl writing alone for some reason at sometime on a sunny day in the middle of a park.