In literary theory, the chronotope is how a moment in time and space collide through language.

The Woman at the Laundromat Says I Need Two More Hands

Here’s what happens: I lose track of something impossibly small,

and everything I turn up has the wrong face. On the train I don’t

scream but I think about screaming, and someone

thanks me for my kindness. Someone builds me

a small house. It’s impossible to locate. I follow

it around, listen for its longings. You grow tired–

but wait – wasn’t I happy? Wasn’t I asking all

the right questions? The man I buy weed from says

everyone in the government is terrified of people growing

their own. He says it’s a new year, you should try something new

and overstays his welcome. Wasn’t I trying to remember what you

had granted me? How I angled its ache away from mine? He calls

the machine he once witnessed leak its own smokable oils the most

inventive one he’s ever seen. He marvels at its ease, what can be built

for renewal. Could you imagine this

ten years ago? Can you imagine it even now?

Existence As Revolutionary Praxis