The coffee shop I’m sitting in right now is playing Rainbow Connection by Kermit the Frog. I’m convinced I’m still asleep. None of this is real. I cannot write. I am so tired.

You know when you sit, leaning back against the wall. You become an observer. And all you can feel is your body pulsing, losing grip with every beat of your heart, until you sink back into the anonymous world. 

I’m supposed to be shooting commercial photography. They keep telling me that an image must have “stopping power,” without explaining what that is. Because, the lazy argue, to explain it would be to lose it. It’s just like a religion or social movement that loses its power when explained, or it’s just like our own haunting critical suspicion of our perceptions when we subject our intuitions to social critique. How, then, can I create an image when I cannot even believe in one?

I listen to this girl next to me trying to tell her friend about a new skin care routine. She’s selling it to her friend. She rambles without a breath, like a preacher practicing for the pulpit, to an audience of one resigning its choice to speak up.

It all feels religious to me. It tastes, if it tastes it tastes at all, like a bitter water that lingers on my tongue. If I believe in anything, I only believe in an opaque language that either legitimizes itself or does nothing at all.