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2001-01-04 || four.fifty-five || my dad got me this ring. i love it because it is so imperfect. || it's my half-birthday. i just can't write lately. i just don't feel right. i think because i am sitting in michael's room and he's playing the magnetic fields? because i want to write words that won't fit into this room? that would bounce off the lime green walls and fall into a heap in the corner for meow meow to chew on and throw up later? there are darknesses. and funny sounds. and caverns full of words that don't fit here. i've been thinking of the cemetery a lot lately. the one at the end of piedmont. i went there once when i left work early. i ate a bagel while sitting against a headstone, and a ghost told me i had cream cheese on the edge of my mouth. that place feels like the inside of me right now. cold and dry and cement and brown grass that has given up on being green. guestbook || notes || archives || profile || photos || d-land |