“Don’t believe everything you read.” Pitter patter. Rain dots the windowsill. I lick and leaf the page. Why wouldn’t I believe every word? When I read, the same voice that I think with speaks the very words I am reading. I am only repeating thoughts inside my own head, letting them wriggle their way in, letting them play and tingle with the spindling hairs curled in my pink-knots, where the memories are.
They should instead say: “Don’t believe everything you think.” That would be far more honest. People are happier to believe a book than to believe their own thoughts. A book puts thoughts in order. Thinking day-to-day twists thoughts apart, and shows contradiction, seeds and stems. The crystalline kush is the book. Reading sedates you.
Every book is itself a biome. Every book is a self-referential enclosed loop, and it has nothing to do with any other book, really. You can take the fine words of a black-sky desert sun and place them in the coral-aquarium of pinkville, and the two will bleed each other to death. They are separate places in this soul. They do not mix. Every book is its own location. If a book is not a biome, and could just as easily bleed into another book, it is probably redundant. Sorry.