2003-07-09 || 7:58 p.m.

|| after letters fall into the bathtub and all the words dissolve away like soap. ||

it's that sixth grade dance feeling. holding a torch and getting burned but not wanting to drop it for the martyrdom and bewitching smell. wanting to write the most heartfelt letter in history, full of pet names and commas and love potion soaking the letterhead but not being able to decide which name goes after the word "dear."

dear -----,

i want to write with the words of an old woman sitting in her smoke-filled kitchen in manhattan, surrounded by yellowed curtains and a television with a dial for the channels and dust that appears to be crystal and diamonds when traversing sunlight. because words just seem more real that way. i want so badly to just once get a good peek at the glass family bathroom to see if zooey's fingers are as wrinkled as old bessie says they are from holding that letter and reading it over and over and over. that feeling. wanting so badly to say hello. hello i love you you are lodged in my brain like a pre-pearl grain of sand and it feels like cancer and i feel i can't think in straight lines

but the person doesn't have a phone and doesn't respond to letters and prefers the company of ghosts and wood-panelled walls.

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