Tinnitus I wonder if it is what you think about in those empty moments when you can't sleep that determine or reflect what you are. Why memories of loss and regret seem to siphon in to fill the emptiness. Maybe this will be the time that I write that text file. Maybe the wealthy and the mil billionaires and entrepreneurs fill these moments with thoughts of more money. New ideas for inventors. Mine? The sounds that I hear when there is nothing to hear. A soundtrack to my sleeplessness. The words of the text in monospace make forms like this. It is sort of a flying shape, not a swoop, a ball or wheel of sorts with a trail to it it means nothing, but somehow it is important that I explain this. Maybe I haven't done it justice, but it will just have to do. We talked about new York (there is just the city) today, when my thoughts were directable and I could choose. Coney Island is going to be destroyed. Casinos, or is it condos? Or was that what happened to Nantasket Beach? There was a girl in New York who I would have let destroy me, only now I can't remember her name. Hal was destroyed by Lazar. In New York. Although at his own hands. By his own neck. From a shower rod. Maybe this girl was a ghost of Lazar. And why do I think of Hal. Another person gone whose memory fills these empty spaces. I don't know why I looked up to Hal, maybe admired him. One day where we wandered from Harvard Square. Go buy a knife to stick in the back of your jeans. Double edged, flip the sheath this way so you can flick it out smooth is they make you reach for your wallet. The constant high pitch in my ears reminds me that nothing is there. A shaking pen scratching on a page up and down. Pulling fibers and bleeding black. That I ought to get up and write this down (how?) before half of it is gone. And it is.