It’s not so simple as excess, because excess abounds everywhere here, and that is still not enough.

I guess sometimes the sky makes me feel as small as I want to feel all the time. There’s a sort of dwindling that goes on, that turns to a trickle into ether by this time of the day, and I even let the cigarette go off on its own and stare ahead at the cranes and don’t think all that much about my own body.

Anonymous lost (then found) letter to ex-lover: “I feel like there’s some sort of virus plagueing (sic) my system. Like you’ve lit me on fire. I’m on fire. I’m on fire I am burning alive. My brain’s cooked. I make no sense.”