I want it to be natural, the way boredom is the way silence is the way a cloudy sky the way it’s just the clouds I see, the “sky” is just a word I know belongs there. natural, the way it’s only a habit. as the “it” that rains, as the day that’s warm, or calm, or slow, or dead. when the day never does. “day” is just a word there, and it’s something else that’s dead. I want it to be natural, a word or a thing to say that doesn’t need to be anything, that doesn’t need to try. the way reason would be just a funny noise I make the way I want it to be

January 1972