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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, 12:58 p.m.

i live in a house painted by magritte

��������� �����caocethes scribendi; the need to write.

- the shuddering inside ceased today while walking down the stairs inside the cafeteria with ashley and tyler, coming out of the brunch area. three guys walked by. looked like they'd been playing basketball or something, been to the gym.

a peaceful calm that accompanies this song now, especially since it's on guitar. pachelbel's canon in d. a song for a lifetime, for a montage of lifetimes, for the time when -

in the middle of a city and there are cars whirling by, you're at grand central station and you look up but the camera is below you and your arms are outstretched and you're looking up, looking up - the wind, the papers, the extreme sensuality of the people rushing by, their proximities -

you're walking home from a cast party you'd only attended for five minutes. tripping over the array of shoes. upstairs, techno and a random guy in the corner walk-dancing to the beat. in and out, the glare of light through the supple glass of amontillado, the more prevalent beer being passed about, in cans, in bottles, in plastic cups - that ever-present colour of beer, watered brown-yellow like dead grass blood.

soundtrack. tracy chapman, fast car. finally see what it means to be living i think this is one of my most favourite songs ever.

and girl. eating shells in the makeshift kitchen-nook, talking about kenneth branagh's version of hamlet. karen, too, speaking volumes and gushing praises over (in my opinion) the hackneyed and unoriginal actor - who doesn't even bring any life to hamlet. he's more interested in saying "I AM HAMLET" than making you feel anything. and that makes me angry. then caleb swings by - the conversation shifts, swirls,

i slip out, unnoticed, and quick down the stairs. trip over the shoes. mark is there, about to leave. "need a ride?" he asks. "no," i say. i think managing to stand. "gotta catch my bearings," i said hurriedly, distractedly. "ok, see you later," he said. and the door closed.

i stood there looking out through the crack in the door until the van had pulled away and then moved. only then moved.

but i'm winning.

snow melts as quickly as the sun gives it rein.

daylight saving time. meanwhile peter is talking about eating a girl out. wet cat. meanwhile i am shuddering on the inside. meanwhile tracy chapman, gimme one reason. said i don't wanna leave you lonely, you gotta make me change my mind the spirit, when it realises it is lonely, seeks out a companion. when that is unrealized, the spirit is once again submerged in a flood of self-pity.

periscope up. there's a whole ocean of 'em, out there ...

somewhere ...



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�SEH