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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
2003-03-30, 3:53 p.m.

bright eyes & switchfoot

��������� �����bright eyes speaks to my mood today. and switchfoot. mood.

it rains, it rains, and the gray spate of sound is like sullen maracas being quietened - let me know that you're near me / let me know your touch / let me know that you love me / let that be enough - the phone is idle, silent. the colour of sullen is inverted gray, like a black hole, arms-crossed and face darkened. a sort of karmic punishment in indolence, well the future's got me worried / such awful thoughts / my head's a carousel of pictures / the spinning never stops - a kink in the garden hose, the water is stopped from going anywhere.

it's funny the fragile relationship this room has with other rooms on this floor. we have a white board. right now, on said white board is a picture of a cartoon fat man. next to it is printed, "Burn in Hell or Ascend to Heaven? You Decide!" with a small tally. right now, it's decided that the poor fat man will burn in hell - but we wake up this morning to a variety of other printed slogans on the door ... "Purgatory? Nirvana? Limbo?" and such tidbits as "It is better to reign in hell than serve in Heaven - Dante" as well as "Reincarnation??" and the dante quote is written in a sloping, heavy-metal type hand. the lines of the letters are slashed, side to side, and look like twigs hastily assembled to create an alphabet - i keep making these to-do lists but nothing gets crossed out -

i want to see the future, but i keep looking further into the past. i want to wear a raincoat but i only have a trenchcoat. i want to play the guitar but it's not tuned and i'm no good. and my only hope lies in forgetting ... something

i was going to go out today. you're just a piece of the puzzle, so / i think you better find your place

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�SEH