“EVERYTHING IS PRIMAL”, he had scribbled on the last page of his notebook. The previous 30 or so pages were filled, injected to the binding with bleeding thoughts, fleeting ideas, desperate shouts at humanity. No one was listening, ironically, until long after he was gone.

“and out here it makes sense to me, because that’s okay, because everything is as it should be out here. it’s a random fucking algorithm, numbers that don’t make sense. the deer eats when it’s hungry, the frog croaks when it wants, it storms when the earth is ready. out here i can ignore everything that kept me locked in chicago. those things don’t exist. no relationships, there’s no greetings, there’s no grand master plan but rather a constant happening of nothing. and it love it. i am alive.”

I look up for a second, and take a breath, examining the serine woods around me. His notebook acted as a long forgotten portal to a chaotic world. I lifted my hand to reveal one last phrase, circled at the bottom of the page.

“it is happening.”