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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
2003-05-19, 12:45 a.m.

the only thing this night is missing is the mournful sound of a train-whistle

��������� �����gibbous moon, on the wane. slowly becoming anorexic. to the mellow sounds of dispatch, the general -

take a shower and shine your shoes, you got no time to lose, you are young and you must be living

an odd queasy feeling in my stomach, tonight, too. sick of these incomplete sentences meaning something more than they always do. i'd like to get on a more regular sleep-cycle. the first day of summer, to me, today. a breezy, warm feeling. ice cream with kristin and asa, then the matrix with the same, mark, jason and anthony. sitting in the backseat between kristin and mark, the tall one - head brushing the ceiling. gawky and loud-mouthed. the First One to Die in a Horror Movie type thing.

go now, you are forgiven - go now, you are forgiven

felt strangely out of place. something about being in that group that makes me feel like i have to either be ultra-cynical or as funny as possible. it's enervating. when i'm not, i feel the old melancholy again - leeching it like a septic tank into green grass. every time i say something, i feel as though i'm being silently judged - especially by mark. it's paranoia, i know it. and yes, i am being very honest about it. to myself, to whoever reads this, but not to him. can that be called honesty? lying by omission? not that it matters.

i had the same problem with nate, you may remember. what was it that ended that horrible feeling? i think it was that time at the bus station in june. the affirmation of one another's existence. physically. then we drifted. grew apart. stayed friends, but drifted. the theatre department is like that, a barrier around all of us, a corral, even. we can roam around the paddock, but we always run into the same colt or the same filly more than once. and there's bound to be friction. it's what you do with that time. the civility, the abandon, the honesty.

it'll happen the same this time around, but the tear will be more dramatic, i think. noticeable. it's happened already. just a marked difference in opinion. in a year, when i'm attached to someone else (hopefully of the female variety) i will be linking back the entry on the night we went to see Gerry (the movie) together. a decided rift.

tired, right now. dispatch, the mellow sound of the moon rising. slackening in the face muscles - not even a smile, really. contentment, but neutrality.

ready for something new. now, just waiting for it.

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�SEH