4:11 p.m.

Dr. Carey wants me to keep a record of my thoughts and moods while I'm here, which is just the clinical way of saying she wants me to keep a diary.

She let me look through a metal filing cabinet full of half used spiral bound notebooks, blank sketchbooks and yellow legal pads. I pulled out  a red Mead notebook that had a third left with blank pages, the rest ripped out.

I'll begin with a poem.

Intake...

Dr. Carey, you should be exposed to my great literary talent before you come to know me too well. I don't have a portfolio but I can show you the half written novel post mortem on my desktop or my drawer of Moleskin notebooks or the "Property of Emily Mooring" you'll-need -a-lock-picking-background-to-get-into-this-shit era that safeguards my most soft bellied secrets. It's a graveyard and you won't find the sincerity that satisfying.

And I won't finish this one either.

I don't finish anything.

In this case if I run out of words I'll just go back and draw in bloodshot eyeballs in the margins and waning sun rays before all the headings.

I'm not even sure you're going  to read this. I should've asked.

Or, is hoarding it and detailing obsessively really what you want?

But really, ultimately , people write down their fears, desires or instances they suspect are the result of the Mandela Effect so that eventually someone reads it, right? Your kids, people 150 years in the future or ...that squatter from AirBnb that moves into your  apartment and won't leave.

I'm probably over thinking it.

Are you reading this?