Invisible Birds

I liked writing on this thing better before people actually read it. Now I’m self-conscious about my posts (which is why there haven’t been any). Will I be held responsible for what I say?
I’m feeling inspecific lately, like a balloon in space. I think the best thing to do in that case is to write (using a pen with a thick, inky line) lists of very specific things, that exist in a certain place, at a certain time, in a certain way. And then orient the self, according to those points of reference, in the particular.
As I am typing, I am observing the veins in my hands, which are almost transparent in this light. I like seeing my veins, I always appreciate evidence of my circulatory system. It’s reassuring to know that I am full of wires and tunnels, it makes me feel less vague about things.
When I was eleven, a year before I became vegetarian, I was eating a piece of chicken and a vein slipped out of it. It had lost its color and was like a piece of rubber tubing. It was stretchy.
As blood is supplied to every cell in the body—especially the muscles, I wonder how many capillaries and vessels the average meat-eater consumes…laid end to end, how far would they go?