Annotations on a series of firsthand accounts

I wrote this with a quill. A quill motherfuckers. Sometimes I love christmas.

I was or
will choose to believe I was
on some lonely road outside Tokyo
watching snowmelt rise and sink
along paths cut in/I was or
want to believe I was
watching from some gilded window
as below me Paris in awe
began to chew away its own/I was or
would like to pretend I was
restless on waves holding
a candle over my page marking
tracks I'd/I was or
remember being told I was
sweating out nausea in deep trees
listening to a staring match
between/I was or
I know at least someone was
bending back a raven's wingbone
watching someone far away
sucking the end of the feather
waiting for ink