you've long stopped debating the merits of softcover, fossilized, sleeping in, surgical, with tangled hair, modern history, a pile of butterflies that need roman numerals/what any man wants. Manmade things are not always inanimate, take a garden, for example, walking through it with a watering can in one hand, the yellow pages in the other. Such routine, sometimes. You set aside a day for produce purchase and it tore you apart: you left a papertrain, shifted things in the fruit bowl, borrowed the newest translation in your language, stared at the heater running along the length of your floorboards.
:the abstract policy of my brain after being curled and soundless around so many people these past few days. Friday drank red wine from France and slept somewhere other than home, and Saturday as well--being nothing natural, I was lost in the mail, rerouted, equated with poise, such presence, couldn't move, heavy as descriptions of your mother's kitchen, autobiography, waiting for someone to tell you they don't love you anymore, international airspace, or wings over it. Heavy, you couldn't have pushed me aside with the force of someone swearing never again, putting on clothes, or counting the hours.
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Today was all Kurt Cobain, I'm not even kidding you. Just think about it, (I like) girls with strange eyes, (I can be) moody.