a moving, a dizziness, a solemn regard for grief and heaviness. stuff is not a replacement for love. i suddenly had too much stuff. i wanted everything gone. sublimation is moving quickly from feeling the comfort of a baby blanket years ago enter the room then waft into tears you are dying to choke out but instead just transpire into thoughts. respire. perspire. they vanish or they become the tendril wrapping you. nothing has ever comforted me. I would not describe myself as a “comforted” person. i wanted the plain white room. I had a recurring vision of dying at 34 and I’m convinced more and more I don’t have to. I’m convinced it was suicide. I wanted to move slower, slower than time and just watch things drift away. i felt certain on fleeing, the heaviness of leaving my stuff behind, knowing I might have to. these would be flashes of a minute. I reminded myself how much time I had left. about six more hours of this. it had only been the first hour, the coming up. what have I been thinking? but the deep voice that is both mine and not mine came in: it’s not what you’ve been thinking, but what you’ve felt instead.