tonight:

there are Russians slipping notes under doormats and i am walking the line between homage and plagiarism, stuffing letters into self-addressed and stamped envelopes marked return to sender. i am trading for sonnets with Renaissance women and theorizing about the homogenization of experience in parking lots. there is mattar panir in my refrigerator, and police tape holding together Mardou's apartment.

tomorrow: i hope to midwife a manifesto.