2004-05-24 || 11:53 p.m.

|| adaption/evolution ||

you adapt to things: your bum knee or a nervous twitch or the state of oregon swallowing up your bosom friend. mothers falling sick and catching up with old friends on the street to find there is absolutely nothing to say and it's not acceptable to hold onto their coat lapels like they're falling. moths emerging from the closet, two or three every day, and at first feeling alarmed when making a mental check of all the woolen fodder, but then growing accustomed to their fluttering and realizing how much is in there that hasn't been taken off the hangers in some time: twelve years of coats and dresses and ancient sweaters, the dress you were wearing the night you lost your virginity, the coat with petrified egg yolk on the hem from the night a car full of fraternity boys sped by when you were waiting for the walk sign to turn, the skirt your mother insisted on fixing once in your childhood home, eyeing you in your woman's body while holding the needle in her mouth and squinting under dim light.

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