I wish I could have finished this

But the weird abstract feelings that fueled it disappeared, and probably will never return again.

April 9, 2009

Notes left under your windshield wiper, text messages from unknown numbers; you'd rather not know who they're from you kind of like the mysterious beauty of not knowing, you like thinking maybe they're from God. Smiling up at you, buttoning all your jacket buttons which kind of bothers you but you don't care, she smiles, like she has a secret but not in that "I know something you don't know" kind of way it's more like she wants to share it with you. For once. She's the first one where it's felt that way.

You had begun to lose interest in romantic love, the whispers and kisses cheesiness and you had begun to be bored with hearing things about how it's "beautiful" and NOT cheesy and then all of a sudden she's smiling up at you and buttoning your goddamn buttons again which really kind of gets to you and she knows that but she's the only one where you actually get the joke as she elbows you in the side. And it's not really full of whispers and all that cheesiness and kisses and "fiery feelings" and like impassioned sex and that's really quite refreshing. It's really more full of half-full cups of cold coffee and laundry and bad jokes and overcast skies and feeling stale and bored.

Maybe someone will relate to this?

Things have changed. That's like always something you can say for sure. But still, no one's ever in their office, and these dishes still never get fucking clean. Ever. Where do things go, besides away? Nothings for certain, ever for certain, looks like you'll basically be cleaning dishes for the rest of your life, and right now, right now you just need to _______.

Steal away for new faces; injustice. Look.

One of these days

The days you want to spend entirely within yourself. This is not a room; this is not a desk; this is not a book—this is your heart; this is your mind; this is your loneliness, your soothing and all-encompassing solitude. Others, for now, you'd rather leave alone.

And when someone unknowingly interrupts, what is there to do but invite them in? You are vexed at first, but then realize there is room for another. Come in, you say, pouring a second cup of coffee, I was just thinking about you.

One from just now

There were lights. There were lights here where we sang. There were lights here where we sang, huddled around the lamp-posts, caroling, cajoling, released without paroling, here together in our cautious hands-up new friendship. Here we are in parkas, hard-nosed and everywhere else; we don't take up enough of this panoramic picture we look like scenery compared to the streetlights, burning alone, broadcasting to us 'come and go as you please.' You've been here before.

Read aloud, as fast as you can

And I Said When He Burst Through My Door - Wednesday, JUNE 4^TH, 2008, 2:00 AM

People seep into each other they ooze and overflow and they try to mingle like my cigarette smoke with your incense smoke and they seem to sometimes make it, they sometimes get a shoulder into a hip or a knee into a forehead but god forbid they might coagulate and get stuck, so they pull out, and they jump up and shit shit shit did anything get in fuck I hope hope hope not why didn’t you pull out earlier? And seepage occurs sometimes when we burn and melt or go up in flames it takes that heat to get there you know you gotta get hot before you burn into smoke or liquefy I think that’s what it’s called something in chemistry but they have to you know get all hot and THEN seep into each other, there ain’t no multiple solid objects occupying the same space I mean that’s BASIC chemistry I think or physics or some shit but you catch my drift. I seep into you sometimes, like universes overflowing into each other, they all have different sets of rules but they overlap sometimes, you know, SEEP, we’re all molecules and that’s it, right, so we can slip in and out of each other, so that being said that being said I was just thinking right now, I really want to know just who the hell do you think you are, Loxley?