Archive of Our Own ^beta

Day One

(#1 - I don't)

I don't write, ever

I don't write, ever, at all

I don't write, ever

(#2 - I'm not a poet)

I'm not a poet

I don't think this is really

productive at all

(#3 - Freeform is better)

Haiku is a restrictive way to write. I preferred

freeform (in English, not

on my own time)

it seems the faceless old woman

who secretly lives in my

home

prefers it too

considering how much easier it is

to find a piece of paper

(#4 - Question)

Why do i stay here (in

this house?) 

(#5 - Answer)

My car radio is broken.

(#6 - Editing)

I edit my writing constantly

I can't seem to reconcile my

sense of what is correct and my

sense of what is beautiful

(#8 - Editing #3)

I edit myself constantly

I can't seem to reconcile my

sense of what is right and my

sense of what is real

(#9 - Editing #4)

I edit myself constantly

How can I reconcile my

emotions and my

goals

(#10 - melancholy humor)

When I was a kid I wanted to be an astronaut

Houston, we have a problem-

(#11 - presently)

I am too tired for this psychology-exploring

shit

Day Two

(#12 - and not the first time)

There were anomalous sounds 

coming from my closet

around 3 AM

and as i lay there

repeating to myself

"I am not on the radio

there is no

station management

in my home"

Cecil's show came on the radio

(certainly at the wrong time but perhaps a repeat)

and I fell asleep instantly

(#13 - Sleeping in)

I dreamt of a voice that echoes

endlessly on the subject of my hair

but how long will it last anyway

(#14 - Science)

as a scientist I do my best to observe

and not to interfere

with subjects of observation

(at some points it is more difficult than one might think)

(#15 - hands)

my hands are cramped from writing

all my work so flowery

for example I might write:

Subject G speaks even when he's silent

because both his eyes and the other one

speak volumes by themselves

the third listens more often

as it bends light of his sand-tan skin

i'm not sure i'm working

at all

(#16 - coffee)

my faceless roommate

has been cutting thorns from the neighbor's roses

scratching on leaves

writing things she will not show me

drinking coffee out of glued-together mugs I've never seen

she has lived here much

much longer than I have

(I think)

(#17 - poetry week?)

it is poetry week and I am

somehow surprised that

I didn't find out until the second-to-last day

then again

time is strange in Night Vale

(#18 - question #2)

I wonder if it'll matter if I stop writing

(#19 - answer #3)

suddenly I can feel

earthquakes

it seems to matter

(#20 - huh)

For some reason I have started

to enjoy these writing sessions

mandatory writing sessions

and yet

it is time for bed

perhaps I will do this again sometime.

Day Three ( 2 months after Day Two)

(#21 - untitled)

I thought I would die

and i could not think but I thought maybe

if I didn't die I might

try to live

and when I started breathing again

I think

I may have started breathing in a different way

I asked him to the arby's

Day Four (One month after Day Three)

(#22 - descriptions)

He talks about my hair

and my mind

and me

and calls all three perfect

I stopped minding on June 15th

(#23 - Cecil)

i cannot describe him adequately

but I can try:

he's Cecil Palmer

he is the Voice of Night Vale

he gesticulates wildly on the radio

he is shy with me

I am shy with him

maybe we can be shy together

Day Five (Date indeterminate)

(#24) 

There were some years, too many, spent alone

asleep in rooms kept cold (and distant now),

today I hear a sound that's not my own

and i don't feel the need to wonder how

I wake up every morning to a smile

sometimes with open eyes but often closed.

And every single morning for a while

I've kissed two lips so delicate, like rose.

And you say, then, "Good morning," and I say

"Good morning to you too." I really mean

each word articulated in that space

The bed, the room, the sheets, and what's between.

And always when you say my name to me

I hear yours, too, and I think I can see.