My true nature is happenstance. My books are disorderly they crowd each other on the bed, shelves. I put tools in the pen drawers and candles with the dishes. I see beauty in the chaos of it all sometimes, the finding of things where you least expect and I believe all the objects talk amongst themselves. Because I have no expectations, the screwdriver fondles a spoon and Hemingway lies on top of Dr. Seuss.

I want you to understand everything is chaos, then underneath that pattern, predictability but those two things: chaos, order—fuck each other long into the night, trying to understand who will stay, who will leave. And no, love is not part of this Ménage á trois who sits in a chair. Love is the air, the blood—the very thing which causes order and chaos to move, to breathe and because of that very nature—love is indeed, trite.

Chaos and order pay her no heed.