If

And I am chasing a butterfly (or is it the butterfly—the one I capture?). Yellow wings, everything light, even me and I am unable to think clearly. Clean. I am a baby. To imagine my life all at once, I rest my head on a stone.

Dust makes its way into my eyes, resting on my pupil and how I love all of this. How playful the problem is...the butterfly flys away.

My eyes are burning—it is day. I am twenty-seven today. I make coffee. I pee. I have already quit smoking cigarettes. I open the blinds. It will be a beautiful day, for it is a beautiful day everyday, and I drink my coffee silently in my room.