My heart and the elevator, a plummet inside a plummet.

Context is everything. Dress me up and see. I'm a carnival barker, an auctioneer, a downtown performance artist, a speaker in tongues, a senator drunk on filibuster. I've got Tourette's. My mouth won't quit, though mostly I whisper or subvocalize like I'm reading aloud, my Adam's apple bobbing, jaw muscle beating like a miniature heart under my cheek, the noise suppressed, the words escaping silently, mere ghosts of themselves, husks of empty breath and tone.

I work on a laptop specifically so I can work in cafes and pretend I'm part of the human world.

Writing is a private discipline, in a field of companions.

I'm a firm believer that there are no rules in art. Every trajectory is different.

There's something about the rhythms of language that correspond to the rhythms of our own bodies.

I met someone who lives in an elevator.