you ask me what all this means. and i think of you. stark. pen stroke and shaped. memory. shifting. we aren't sad songs playing late nights. boxes of tickets and felt papers. rounds. rows. and then it goes. i don't know what this is. or what it all means. there is never nothing. and so it all goes. and we do too. i wrote a memory into the shape of a shark and in the belly of great white we stalked memory and time and stopped pretending that we were what it all means. which we aren't. weren't. nothing is more than memory or time or hangovers and minicabs and late-night episodes of come dine with me and pretending there might be a future that didn't involve questions about money and travel plans and long or short-term loans. knives in the spoon drawer. because that's everything about how things means. how the world turns. round. when you are captive and staid. and looking for the other side of all those things that kept you alive and searching. for something other than whatever it is that you found yourself being. so much. you. now. your best kept secret. you couldn't ever tell yourself. over greenland. or anywhere. else. now. what am i. now. waiting for the phone call. ring.