The rise and fall of thought volcania

The supposition of a subjective object just slightly more or less than a-fractal-and-a-half-down-(the-recursive-modeling-chain) thinks it types while hearing a train passing a quarter mile away.

In-formed, it – and all the seeming rest.

This seeming activity, too, and everything about its context – as though there were others, places, times, experiences having been writ.

Partner <hides screen> wanders into the living room from the bathroom, talking while tooth-brushing, something verbally blanket-wrapped-important to her that couldn't be less important to me, especially as I type something even less important while dreaming of dreading my having initially considered it important was merely yet another cob pipe dream whose meds still haven't arrived.

And so it <hides screen> seemingly goes on, this

(I could have called it something, but in fact how could I have called it anything while too anxious to hide the screen again as she stood there in her robe in the bedroom doorway.. looking this direction.. (or so I imagined whilst myself too chickenshit to look to be sure).. the pale stench of suspicion diving low into and along the coffee-stained carpet, seeking faux steel tall vertical lamp bases.. she's still shuffling around – now at the very end of this couch seeming beady-eyed fulfillment-starved into the screen of her phone whilst my mind screams she's poorly covertly angling to see what I'm typing, why I'm typing

<later after babysitting a mind having exploded into engaging her in deflective conversation>

So I sip me some <whatever this 80 proofer “is”> (i.e. is named). Tasty. Effective.

I like my peat neat.