2002-02-19 || 1:09 p.m.

|| taking dictation. ||

you would like to take a picture of everything: stoplights telephone booths napkin dispensers camelias the hydrangeas in that backyard surrounded by strings of light, by chandeliers not accustomed to weather but operational nonetheless. diner bathrooms treacherous intersections the statue of joan of arc and then. you would like to catalog the street names: klickitat street is where ramona quimby lived, isn't it? you would like to gather textures and scraps, material and cardboard, loved shirts and comic books curling at the corners from shower steam, from thunderstorms. you would like to. memorize cracks in sidewalk. leave messages on payphones. somehow capture that fantastic singing voice that only seems to visit on the highway in the truck with the windows rolled up and foggy. write your name in small black print on curbs. lift your finger upward to sky like they do, licking finger first not quite like they do, measuring something not wind not weather but something like gravity like chemistry like time passing.

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