signal.

How lucky are we? To know the souls, to feast on the art, to carry both grief and bliss within a body. A body mostly made of water. To carry this water. Nevermind our guts being guts—we are all a bit gruesome, built by squelch and pulp. Gorgeous, purposive mess! The bliss of sloshing self.

Get in on this. You’ve got nothing to lose by rolling around in what you love / by turning yourself into a strike-anywhere match / to fall for every surface. Forget about the dumpster fire for a goddamn second. Listen to that thunder roll on its way to a date with the distance. Consider the train sounds you grew up with. Locomotive love songs at dawn. The dopey plunge of punch-drunk possibility every time your heart left its porchlight on.

Give in to your own sweetness. You are made of blue river and covered in tributaries. You are a groove in the record. Ditch born in sound. What do you make of your rhythm? Your sworn in divots sung by risk. How gracious and cruel and wild and rude that all we have is now.

Take it. Take it and run.