a triptych of nothingness : mother, daughter, holy ghost. yesterday morning I was looking for my preferred pen. everyone’s got a pen that they feel they make better notes with, right? Like the ink flow matches the thought process more fluidly. I could not find the pen. I did my laundry. and made some notes while I waited for it all to stop spinning. I opted for pacing around the laundrette speaking into my phone to dictate my words if it could keep up n on track (I’d cut my strong thumb and it was plastered up unable to type as rapid as my mind was racing) Machine done. I took a white shirt out, of a mostly black load n found I’d left that favourite pen in a trouser pocket. this isn’t an interesting anecdote, nor loaded with a moral. I just quite like the marks left on the fabric. Fortunately I didn’t like the shirt too much. + thus the ink did greater work on the subconscious of my mind. ______ some call it rorschach, some call it casablancas.