it's 1:27 a.m., on 2001-08-01 - a lunar eclipse.

~

I haven't even checked my email and already I'm typing here; I have to do some work on the IBAs tomorrow. I have to have an update.

For some reason, I want to write poetry. I want to say, 'there are spaces in the hollow men, between their crumbling wicker chairs on the crumbling grey, sun-bleached concrete; tank treads softly on the stony ground' --but it's a bad line, and therefore I won't say it.

I don't know. I have Destiny's child stuck in my head, which is rather uninteresting; I want to write R.E.M. slash which is SO disrespectful, but, but, I'm in love with Michael Stipe. I'm seeing him, sticky, and I'm seeing him shy. I can see him posing for the camera, hip jutting out all angles and bones. I want nothing more right now than to share that sticky comfort and to know that I can keep what I need with me.

~*~

It's one of those foam mattresses again, the ones that make your skin melt and stick to the sheets. The kind where the sheets weren't quite sticky in the first place, but that was a pleasant surprise instead of something that's expected. Our car was out front; we needed gas, and badly. Checkout was by four pm the next day.

We had an eternity until then, a whole night. In a whole night the earth spins halfway around itself, the stars realign. twelve hours of darkness in which most people are sleeping, fists curled up and eyes squeezed shut.

We slept if we wanted to. We didn't sleep much -- if you're dead to the world too much, you might miss it.

~*~

I need to find these people the souls of lost poets; they must be named appropriately. Something from a barrel of lost souls. Drowned souls, perhaps.

Drowning souls, fighting desperately for air and peace of mind and a way to the surface. People who need

I am full of an emptiness so profound and so hollow it is beautiful. And I am poured into a joy that clings like second skin.

I like nectarines. They're so sweet.

~*~

These are the kinds of thoughts I'm having right now, because I'm not looking at the screen full-on, and I'm dying of exhaustion. Both things are contributing to a kind of funky mood--in a good way-- and I am feeling my insides churn. Glug glug glug. I could get on the airplane tomorrow and I could crash into the ground and die, and if someone asked me, post mortem, whether I had been happy with my life, I think I could say, 'why yes'. And if they asked whether I regretted dying tomorrow, I could answer, why no, because I have a complacancy and a flat horizon; I have a sense of perspective and I accept that in the way which it was intended to be taken. With wonder.

Feeling very introspective in a good way. Toronto isn't even phasing me. I am my world. Everything else is just the same vague solar system.

~

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what would sith be nostalgic about anyway - November 24, 2015
moving truck dilemma - October 28, 2015
- - July 19, 2015
- - July 01, 2015
bruise - June 29, 2015

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