I write as if someone is chasing me. As if I am being stalked. Or running out of time. Since childhood I have written this way, with a sense of heightened and red-hot urgency. There is someone or something behind me, giving chase. I have to keep going, or else. Also, there is someone or something ahead of me, that I am trying to catch, but cannot. I imagine these are variations of me, different iterations with different needs and wants. I am the pursuer and the pursued. The possessor and the possessed. The dog chasing its own tail, the fool shadowing an invented moon, or a game of futility with me fearing the one chasing me will eventually get me, while simultaneously fearing the one being chased will never be caught. There are no others in this equation. This is an existential loop of masturbatory exercise, or an exorcism with no devils to purge or let.