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2002-09-29 || 10:06 p.m. || significant objects. || there are certain stretches of highway that make your heart hurt driving over them. you can almost see the grooves in the asphalt you've made from all the times you've flown by in the past, thinking so intently of your destination and who was waiting there, and you hold your breath and notice skyline, orange lights, the way other cars rush by so fast, oblivious to all the old thought patterns and feverish routes and hasty retreats scattered like paper along the shoulder. there are tapes whose names have evaporated from the plastic, who have grown slightly warped and garbled from direct sunlight and heat and incessant playing. they are shoved under passenger seats, wedged next to the emergency brake, and are played accidentally in the dark while crossing the bridge at night. magnetic strips as unwitting timelines: this is when you kissed. this is when you crossed the railroad tracks by the beach at night. this is when your hand brushed up against his in a truck and stayed there. there are pictures. there are books. there are hairs forgotten on sweaters, on pillowcases, in the abysmal crack between mattress and wall. you find a key and don't remember what door it belonged to. you think of new year's. your birthday. a particular number signifying an entire year. all the significant objects coming into view out of fuzziness and it hurts your head to remember them all, like when you think too hard about stars. guestbook || notes || archives || profile || photos || d-land |