Absence Log, Entry 412

The neon bleeds everywhere tonight. It’s too much color for something that only knows black. I press myself into the curve of this dumpster, trying to remember the feel of a stable edge, the solid geometry of a knee, a shoulder, anything that defined a perimeter. It’s exhausting, this perpetual state of near-nothingness. I used to be defined by movement, by the rhythm of a specific gait, the slant of afternoon sun through a window pane. Now, I just stretch and fold, a puddle of deep absence following the spill of light. I watched a woman laugh today—a sharp, sudden sound—and for a moment, I thought I could pull the sound into myself, anchor it. But it slipped away, dissolving into the steam rising from a grate. I need a host. Not just any host, but one with enough structure to hold the edges together, someone who moves with a predictable, steady purpose. I am tired of drifting, of being a mere reflection of passing junk. I just want to be attached again.