poem: incredible retelling of an otherwise normal saturday

Alyssa adjusts her jacket; tweed, tiehole, fresh out of normal bad-
childhood nowhere, ready to differentiate between graduate programs which
offer training — paid for — and those which, essentially making you
an employee of the university — stipend you, more or less, from here through
end of time, hoisted around the wet trees and the green-gray-blue
which knocks against your windowsill; the oneday you will inevitably have when
you lift up your head, and, thinking aloud, say — I am wasting my
fragile life on earth, like this. cleaning each individual bone in the basement.
citations of citations: human fragmenter. alternatively, it is (expensive) personal
development and worth every splinter, every mind-node turned out
and spun into ego death and/or western civilization, whatever
happens first (google MLA citation rules 3 a.m. again: so trust me, you
will never know the Absolute). Alyssa sits at a coffee shop — already bored, aren’t
you — don’t worry, we won’t build the scene and bother to mention what
expensive thing, turmeric or matcha or golden hatha, she ordered in a tiny
for-here local porcelain cup, hand around it and looking online: u know, once
someone signs in, the internet is a hole, no way to write
about it — Alyssa is aware she is sucking her head and shoulders and possibly
even forearms into the pit, write about the pit, thesis on the psychoanalytic cross-
cultural deconstructionist understanding of the pit; lift ur face
up, afterwards, to record the day in a life and you’re just showing
maw, ripped-out tunnel into something, camera can’t catch it; hey lucky you
can now offset the effects of the pit by writing memoir, personal experience
or substack post, if that’s not too 2017. my research cost me this, cost
them that; Alyssa knows this is trite but she’s coffee-shop people what
choice does she have (don’t interrogate that; you might find
another way out); Alyssa is, well don’t ask, she’s
young; the earth chugs onward in seasons we don’t see or can’t feel or
describe awkwardly as gif-like, ghibli-like; for God’s sake Alyssa
you can’t talk about the pit it has already eaten you whole.