2001-04-12 || 10:11 a.m.

|| stretchety stretch goes that heart. ||

there is this very uncomfortable feeling i get sometimes. i've been getting it quite often lately. it's like this: this stretched-out heart frustration emotional confusion feeling. i get it when i see beautiful old houses, ones with wrought iron turrets and haunted attic windows. i get it when i see old photographs. beautiful pieces of art. babies. young children. old fashioned phone booths, the wood ones with a light inside you can turn on with a switch. richard brautigan. the thought of traveling to europe, spending time there, walking on sidewalk and being so consumed by the atmosphere that i don't feel the need to talk for days.

and this feeling. it's like my ribcage having to readjust because my heart is too swollen to fit. it's what urges me to carry a journal at all times, to record everything compulsively. if i could i would arm myself with camera and tape recorder, mechanical appendages, and have them at the ready. take samples and measurements and keep particles in vials. this is a chunk of brick from south hall, my favorite building ever. this is the sound in your voice that betrays the words you speak. this is a collection of minnie cat's hair before she died. this is my fingerprint, twenty-two years ago.

because i hate how perfect things have the habit of being so fleeting, so ethereal, that they shift back into the ordinary without my being able to catch them and put them in my pocket.

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