not nothing tonight. some grey green desk chair over in there, in the corner, wheeled, and under there. wrought wood. I've erased so many, time and time again. muaura davis is up too loud/late and we can't see thru the think. how comforting a woman's voice can be no matter, no matter, no matter , no matter, disguised as impossible. i never knew i could smell her, scented and now. establish these sketched plans and work your fingers to the bone from there, i write from my bed. an overture of everywhere.