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/ november is a month of ghosts

a grey knive lurking on the corner of the bathroom counter, incongruously balanced on the edge - just about to fall - the light of day leaked into the room like dish detergent being squeezed gently out of a bottle, and over in the corner, rats rustled in a paper bag. he walked into the room to the sound of the ceiling fan slowly misunderstood. his left sneaker squeaked slightly. paper in his pocket crumpled up and a blue crayon behind one ear. a muddy cigarette in one hand and no lighter. his eyes are silently stained-glass windows inside a church with no congregation, waiting for the hollow bellpulls - the doorbell of the Almighty. he takes out a sharpie and marks an x on the wall. moments later a fly buzzes fatly in and lands on the ��������������������������������������������spot, preening and humming to itself. below, at the baseboard, an ant trundles in. he looks at the mirror. he looks away. outside, a bird hits the window, and all things still, in hushed������������������������������������������mourning. an ignorant cricket looses a selfish mating call and
2003-02-27, 12:53 a.m.

i suddenly seek a new forest of innocence to hide in

��������� �����a sloppy state. dressed rather cleanly, but feeling sloppy - that sick feeling like barnacles clinging to the insides of your cheek. in all black today, a terrible harbinger of my mood.

right now there is dar williams, newly sent over from corey. i think i like how it sounds.

the wintry display outside is becoming slightly fake. the ice shatters and in small bits scatters itself strategically across the asphalt - onlookers assume there was some vast car accident, or the window of a very tall building pulverised and settled down like snow. the layers of snow and slush have frozen into strata of styrofoam.

news tonight as i stood in the cafeteria, about to gather the plastic blue tray with two lonely plates - one with the remnants of pasta, the other with a half-eaten salad. chrystal, the RA on third, is talking about the war situation. "jason tuck, over from the towers, has to be replaced - he's being deployed." i don't really know who that is .. until i remember casey's RA from last year. and then it really hits home - "... and dan pendergast." who i never really knew, but saw everywhere. "he's already over there." i'd always been against the war before, but mostly because of vague, unformed philsophical reasons.

suddenly it felt like the dream i had the night before. standing, still, a visceral contorting in my stomach, looking out of the series of thick windows. on one side of the sky, it was the thick, congealed black-blue that immediately precedes night, fading into a resigned pink-orange on one side. i had a feeling - knew - at that moment, a bomb would drop out of the sky and shatter those taken-for-granted windows. the sky would light up like a drop of yellow paint in a glass of blue-swirled water. immediacy. then a sick green following.

i painted the holocaust in my mind, and then stepped back a moment. broken glass.

later, talking with mark about revelation and the end of all things - apocalypse. a creeping insidious. small animals. slow guitar-plucked music and montages of flame-consumed buildings with sprawled bodies in the foreground.

not in our lifetime. paper-thin sky and shivering pines. gray sky and raped pines. white sky and no pines, no sea.

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�SEH