I just realized: this summer is less about writing and more about healing a very large self inflicted mental/creative injury I’ve done to myself. Less talk and more silence, more listening and less problem solving. I goof up constantly. Sometimes silence can make a language of love. 

A jittery AC vent and a pen clicking two desks over, book pages sliding against one another, dvd cases clicking next to each other. The streetcar’s rumble. The incessant cicada chorus. A white static from the city that is reminiscent of the heavy surf.