Trainwrite
10:01pm. Train home. R emember my desire to write a poem. On my phone, I open my diary. Last week was bad but this week better. I want to stare wistfully out into the darkness beyond the train window, but instead meet my own distorted reflection. I have already related my week to my friends and mother, why bother to write? Talking with others as the relevant form of diary writing. What is expression without someone to express to? I suppose I am relating to my future self Punctuate. Freedom of a black screen, white letters appearing in time with the movements of my thumbs. My skin's touch. I have discovered that I know nothing at all. I thought I owned him, completely, intuitively understood what made him tick, more than he himself could fathom. Now, when I look in the mirror I only see light reflected off the irregular surface of a fleshy structure. Memory interjects. When the stranger casually started talking to me (as we unlocked our bikes), I replied as if we ...