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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
2003-04-06, 5:38 p.m.

i will evolve past this

��������� �����i'm listening. really, i am.

to evanescence, my immortal. i'm so tired of being here, suppressed by all my childish fears - and if you have to leave, i wish that you would just leave, because your presence still lingers here, and it won't leave me alone

speaking to my obsession. i label it, with names. david, nate, mark. i label it X it out savagely in red paint, splashed, slashed, exclaimed as loudly as i possibly can, standing on a cliff at the edge of the world, suddenly the camera spins around me and i am exorcised. but it's like a tapeworm, it's always regenerating, scarily, stealthily -

(when i was little i used to think God punished you for doing bad things by making you sad the next day)

thoughts inseminate themselves into my head, swirling around in the vast mix of paint - there's just too much that time cannot erase - that hot feeling behind your eyes. like the sun has migrated there, committed mitosis, and resides in your skull, playing sad violin songs on your optic nerve. i tried so hard to tell myself that you're gone, but though you're still with me, i've been alone, i'm alone

her voice is so pure. so pure, so incredibly vibrato-free, so beautiful. one note extends, extends, pulls out like warm, luscious taffy. but it's not warm. it's cold, and pointed, the timbre to the note is like glass, like when you ping glass with your fingernail and it emits a startled sound - cold glass. but the lyrics can be so hackneyed. the piano and strings resonate, and create a symbiosis of sound.

went to bruce fithian's recital studio today. so many good voices. the tone, the timbre, is what matters to me - oh please make the vibrato stop. it's ridiculous. give me that one pure note, that resonating beauty -

i digress. my intent. if i am blisteringly honest, so honest that it feels like fire is rushing through me and my skin is all pared away and my bones are exposed, and my head is bowed under the scourges of scrutiny, i can be okay with that.

on shuffle. suddenly. radiohead, everything in its right place.

everything

everything

everything

in its right place ...



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�SEH