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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

2003-04-23, 3:03 a.m.

an inevitable horizon. looming. look,

��������� �����ready for things. ready to escape, ready to move on, ready to change. the season forcing it on me.

watched 'the truman show' tonight for the first time. sympathized. not that i live in a controlled environment but i loved it. loved when the ship hit the wall. loved the picture of the stairs and the door. loved the ... movie. good. good stuff. watching more TV lately. 'smallville' tonight. 'the sopranos'.

outside in the fog. 'i think i'm asexual,' i tell jason. i want a cigarette. not because i crave it. because i want something to do with my fingers. replace one bad habit with another. rid yourself of self destruction. rain fog lampposts. it's like paris without the streets. the manicured cobbles and the small alleys and the sense of foreboding.

the quiet sense of desperation fading. on TV james gandolfini is stapling some man's tie to his chest. our door is closed, the time is ticking on, the fan is whirring. emailed dan today twice. he's right. i was never good friends with him but now for some reason it feels like we maybe were (and didn't know it?)

i feel like i am morse-coding to someone who is not really listening. i have a lot of work to do in the next two weeks. none of it includes finals. i am re-reinventing myself again. clothing is weird. 'you get that energy when he touches you - you know, the fireworks, that's not an asexual thing ... are you mad at me, don't be mad, i'm sorry, sometimes i say things, i don't know, i'm being weirdly honest - '

so am i. [shrug]. dispassion in me. desultory movements from day to day. being honest. hope you don't mind. 'i just get this weird ... when you talk about girls, it's not like when you talk about mark - it's sincere then, but not with girls' - not with girls. kate law kissed me the other day, i sort of kissed back. it was nice. i like being kissed-kissing-kissed. 'fireworks'

fog. that sense of irreality, deja vu (they changed something) - that sense of odd retardation, the world is curdling, going sour - 'some people think we're living in the End Times' - going to the mall with mark today, missing a rehearsal and figuring that out too late -

'fireworks, energy [not]' - i am continually morse-coding. dot dot dot dash dash -

crash into the wall, open the door. move on. don't get sucked back into drama.

this is neither the time. nor the place.

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�SEH