Follow teens around Cordova Mall.

Not a moment of music here not poison.

Reading Gertrude Stein out of store entrances.

Someone, a teenager and her friend, approach Rinah in their tribe of seven and tell them something. Probably commenting on their impressive pastel goth outfit. Turns out it was, “there’s a creepy guy following you around.”

Pondering the perpetual wetness of a particular pussy of intimate familiarity and whether its mention here is appropriate or revealing a continuous struggle with boundaries or both.

Boundaries and borders and bounding across and over the the space between asleep and awake and awake and asleep.

A guy in camoflauge pants with a face both bloated and sunken pushes a jesus track between eyes and Stein, commanding “read this too”.

Our discourse included “nah, man”, “arrogant”, “to think that your way is better than someone else’s”, “more white man bullshit”, “oh really, that’s Hebrew in that book? let’s see it” and ended with him throwing the tract at my feet and storming off in a huff.

Paralyzed by the fear of hell. By total foundationlessness. Noone you can trust. Any ounce of gratification is wickedness. A physical sensation. A hell. Complete aloneness. The loneliness of the universe, as Perry Robinson called it in The Traveler. That paralysis ain’t no loving thing to pray on.

Life is a scary place.