[Image: “Pedestrian Underpass, Las Vegas, Nevada (2022-03-04),” by John E. Simpson. (Photo shared here under a Creative Commons License; for more information, see this page at RAMH.)]

From whiskey river:

I have no right to call myself one who knows. I was one who seeks, and I still am, but I no longer seek in the stars or in books; I’m beginning to hear the teachings of my blood pulsing within me. My story isn’t pleasant, it’s not sweet and harmonious like the invented stories; it tastes of folly and bewilderment, of madness and dream, like the life of all people who no longer want to lie to themselves.

(Hermann Hesse [source])

…and:

Probability

Most coincidents are not
miraculous, but way more
common than we think—
it’s the shiver
of noticing being
central in a sequence
of events
that makes so much
seem wild and rare—
because what if it wasn’t?
Astonishment’s nothing
without your consent.

(Lia Purpura [source])

Not from whiskey river:

I’ve never abandoned certain habits. I wash myself daily, brush my teeth, do my laundry and keep the house clean.

I don’t know why I do that, it’s as if I’m driven by an inner compulsion. Maybe I’m afraid that if I could do otherwise I would gradually cease to be a human being, and would soon be creeping about, dirty and stinking, emitting incomprehensible noises. Not that I’m afraid of becoming an animal. That wouldn’t be too bad, but a human being can never become just an animal; he plunges beyond, into the abyss. I don’t want this to happen to me. Recently that’s what has made me most afraid, and it is out of that fear I am writing my report. Once I’ve reached the end I shall hide it well and forget about it. I don’t want the strange thing that I might turn into to find it one day. I shall do all I can to avoid that transformation, but I’m not fool enough to believe with any confidence that what has happened to so many people before me could not happen to me.

(Marlen Haushofer [source])

…and:

The Promise

Stay, I said
to the cut flowers.
They bowed
their heads lower.

Stay, I said to the spider,
who fled.

Stay, leaf.
It reddened,
embarrassed for me and itself.

Stay, I said to my body.
It sat as a dog does,
obedient for a moment,
soon starting to tremble.

Stay, to the earth
of riverine valley meadows,
of fossiled escarpments,
of limestone and sandstone.
It looked back
with a changing expression, in silence.

Stay, I said to my loves.
Each answered,
Always.

(Jane Hirshfield [source])

…and:

When he was a boy, Webster had had only one recurring dream that he knew of, one that he now recalled although he tried to hold the memory away from him:

Webster, alone. The basement of his parents’ house. Nighttime; a single bare low-wattage light bulb glowing from the ceiling. Webster’s attention riveted to the small window set up high on the basement wall, through which he can look across the mostly dark street. Galloping across the pavement now toward Webster, passing beneath the yellow light from the streetlamp, a legless apparition, black, the size and general shape of a large dog and galloping despite the leglessness, bucking like a hovercraft a foot or so off the ground. Galloping quickly quickly in his direction, yet tormentingly slowly too until there it was, hurling itself against the frame of the window of Webster’s parents’ basement, thumping, growling and snapping, black shiny teeth a-flash like sharpened licorice jellybeans. There for him, for Webster.

The dark.

[…]

That was the panic-making thing about “alone in the dark,” it occurred to him: that no one else was visible; not so much the dark as the alone. He’d made a desperate life’s work of being sufficiently “acceptable” never to be alone — inoffensive, mild-mannered to the point of anonymity, absolutely determined never to make anyone else uncomfortable even though the effort kept Webster himself writhing in distress, vanishing into the woodwork so that no one else would. Life, meantime, proceeded without and all around him; crowds of people swirled about his hesitating ruminant form, parting like a torrent when they collided with him and reforming again on the other side. Occasionally someone stopped, attention snagged by the perplexity sticking everywhere out of Webster’s persona: stopped, scratched his or her head, and eventually moved on. That one of those someones had ever been sufficiently snagged to marry him probably came as much of a surprise to that someone — his wife — as it now did to Webster himself. So yeah, he thought now: ironically, despite all his best (or his worst) efforts, he had always been alone, probably would forever (panic a-bubble) remain alone…

(JES, “The Dark”)