13th
Today I was going to write a poem about Chuang Tzu and his butterfly dream, but found out that Li Po beat me to it roughly 1,281 years ago. Maybe in another life I was the pen knife used to sharpen the quill with which the poem was written. Maybe I still am the pen knife. However, it’s difficult to convince oneself of such an honorable position as I, in reality, just spent a considerable amount of time marveling, once again, at elaborate dollhouse miniatures of meat.
“Who can tell the end of the endless changes of things?”
There is a space within the bookshelf that I found on the ninth floor the library. It is nestled between Blake and Borges. Blake on the left, Borges on the right, or the opposite if you were to sit in the opposite direction. This is where I am on Mondays between two and six in the afternoon, waiting for class, proverbs of labyrinths, eating carrots but thinking about popcorn, reading myself to sleep until I can find someone else to do it for me.