6:55 p.m. - 2006-11-22
the fan playing in the background: yeah, that's white noise too
Post modern angst- a body count to remember in broken pencils and elastic bands multiplied by a world surplus of disease and broken hearted bullshit. Long live the post modernistic romance scene. Don'y count backwards when the clock stops. All out of time- no end.
Stay positive- always positive- optimism followed by insanity-lunacy- moonshine- drunken lullaby - a lull - bye - increase, decrease - caved in- stuck - trapped. But time is almost up, almost over. Almost. Often. I miss
he comes when I call and nudges my hand up and whines and cries and somehow shows all the love. By daddy said he has to stay in the othe room. And table manners aren't the rules of the road in our circle. There is trust and more communication then most. And wet noses. Always wet noses. It makes sense. Like the wet line between the beach and the sand, ever-changing, ever-moving, ever-breathing. Drives in circles to circular worlds and screams of excitement in the bakery section. This is not made of fruit. As long as we have each others company, well, I guess i'll make it through another night. And that's not supposed to sound sad. It's supposed to be optimistic.
Airport Love. Holiday Happiness.
