It is as if someone left me on a setting that does not work perfectly in this environment, as if I am constantly vibrating, overcome by too much sensation. I do not see anyone else experiencing this strange bliss. It is as if I am too human to be human. There was a coyote at the foot of the hill the other week. It looked gaunt and weak.

There is a colony of ants beneath the creeping vine purple flowering. And the sky may or may not be airy. And the Ohio River may or may not be wet. And the treatment is to work with everything humanely, even though nothing appears to be humane, even though everything is treated [humorously humane], even though most things are not humane or humorous. [Honestly humane] is no more—the importance of being human is now unimportant? The importance of being human is now unimportant?

Those flamingo billed mimosas do not help when someone sees me as a person. The shifty clouds that move incorrectly. Autoracing or figureskating, rink and brink. Or the storms that have occurred, the hail, the swelling. Bad abnormal. The apples and the buzzards scary scavenge, avenge, cave, gene, me. Peaches from the orchard. Drive to the MidWest. Drive to New York City. Drive to bizarre.