I’m losing my eye-sight, maybe. I think. This happened 10 years ago, sort of. Where I’d get a little cross-eyed. It’s hard to focus. That’s not the point.

I was pouring the second packet of sugar cappuccino into the freshly poured cup, so now there’s a mountainous topping of sugar cappuccino over the initial artificial yummy faux foam topping. I like to let it settle down like an over-developed island, slowly eroding from excess, before I drink it.

That, and the handle on this cup is broken. So it’s hot to hold, and I need my diabetes a little cool before I drink it.

Anyway, I was pouring the second packet of sugar cappuccino, and my eyes got locked and out of focus, but focused on the shadows in the waves of the curtains. Which reminds me of this fun thing I used to do as a child whenever I saw a fence, which was to cross my eyes as hard as I could to see how many times I could multiply the diamonds in the fence. Is this what my aunt meant when she said I’d get stuck like this?

And so I was pouring the second packet of sugar cappuccino, and my eyes got locked and out of focus, and I caught another vision of this man, in a fantasy, or a premonition? A prediction? A manifestation? What if we just calmed down a moment? For embarrassment’s sake.

And isn’t it just the way an idea takes off? Our imagination running, flying, flinging and watering our little seeds that we plant. Little seeds that are yippee-ing out from the ether, through the wind and landing themselves in difficult, unpredictable soil. These little seeds which endure difficult, unpredictable weather? And yet, sometimes they pull off wondrous unexpected growth. Like in that story I read that that Russian wrote?

And so I was pouring the thing in the thing, crossing my eyes and blotting my tears, and reprimanding myself with a shudder about my wild visions and wants, and my pre-occupation with the Soviets. And my tendency in general to get immersive and fixated. And I thought it was so funny how last week at lunch Roman started speaking Russian to me twice, off of some reflex I don’t really understand.

I guess he felt comfortable? I guess I felt familiar. He said, it must be because I have so much Russian in me. Which, what the fuck does that even mean? Because he’s not vulgar like me. He’d never in 500 trillion years be able to piece together a joke like that, nor would he find the same humor I would if I replied “I haven’t had any Russian in me in months!”

I don’t know. He probably could make a joke like that with a little effort, but he wouldn’t. It’s not his way.

He might find that funny actually. But I wouldn’t say it to him. He already knows. And I think if I talk about my sex life – or even the lack of it – he might get uncomfortable. I don’t want him to misinterpret anything as a hint. I don’t think he wants me to either. But this isn’t at all about hints or misinterpretations. It was about him forgetting that I don’t actually know Russian.

So, I really don’t get what he meant by it but sure, okay, I guess. He’d know better than I would why he just started speaking at me in his language.

Anyway, this all started when I was pouring the sugar crack into the broken mug and I got lost in the sauce of delusion or illusion, and confusion because after a certain time of evening I can’t see straight anymore.

Earlier this afternoon on the balcony, I thought what if God is taking my eyes because I’m stubbornly refusing to see. But also, no because, supposing God isn’t some vengeful patriarchal dick, but actually just the continuous flowing of all the things, then God either way doesn’t want me to be blind. In any sense.

And it’s not like I don’t see what’s happening. It’s not like I can’t see the diamond patterns exponentially repeating with my every effort at distraction. I’m very aware of what I’m doing actively, what I’m actively pretending to do, and also of what is and isn’t my direct action. I can see things okay. And I can make things up too, because that’s what imagination is all about.

Anyway, I think I should stop drinking these sugar cappuccinos. I don’t think they’re good for me.

Tell me what you think before we both die