stuff

Who knew a bag of mere things could mean so much and still smell of so many memories.

put on your stockings baby cause the night's getting cold

Last night was warm and fuzzy and the night before was warm and fuzzy, too, and probably the night before as well and the music was loud and there were flashes of red floating across the walls and it was warm and I danced along with guilty pleasures and sang along with middle school memories and forgot for a moment and it was warm and I saw a couple embrace on a fleeting platform before the dark swallowed me and I was happy for them and parents crowded around windows with cameras clutched in mitts and a tree shone blue for a moment as I passed by and it was warm and I walked alone and it was dark and silent and I walked alone and I burnt my fingers three times and remembered things I wanted to tell but have since forgotten and I tied the biggest bow and I dressed myself in plaid and I fell asleep with a book in my hands and I forgot why I was there and I was warm.

(guilty) pleasures

I know as an English Lit grad student, I should not openly admit to loving Twilight but the cat's out of the bag. Aside from it's horrendous writing and very very VERY problematic elements, the series has captured my attention for the past week (including staying up to 5am one night/morning to see if Bella and Edward would make it). And maybe this is exactly why I love it so. The fantastical love story that does not and could not ever resemble anything close to reality even trumps the Buffy/Angel/Spike triangle. I am easily swept up into a romance of excessive love, albeit shrouded with vampires and werewolves. Plus it doesn't hurt that I picture Robert Pattinson's face emitting from the pages.

Oh, and I love this, too. But no apologies needed in this case:

lately

Because sometimes I've used up all my words.

these days

Time heals all, right? And in time I will forget:

1. The exact number of steps (count 'em, twelve) needed to deliver me from my station to the steps of his station (upupup to a waiting streetcar and then downdowndown one familiar street and acrossacrossacross a waiting intersection of blurred greens and reds and honks and upupup an expectant flight of stairs into waiting arms).

2. The feel of a white cotton hug before drifting to sleep.

3. Born to Run in polyphonic ring tone form.

4. Tastes and smells and touches and everything in between.

But in the meantime, I have teen romance novels and one cat who spoons me in his sleep. And time, so much time, passing me this very moment.

Say Yes

I think it's becoming that time of year where I listen to Red on repeat and my writing becomes increasingly cryptic and summer feels like a dream I can't even really remember anymore and I want to get out of this city, this provice, this country and feel something, anything, again.

i always cry at endings

BROKEN

B
R
O
K
E
N

BROK EN

NEKORB

B R O K E N

1. B
2. R
3. O
   
4. K
   
5. E
   
6. N
   

BRO
KEN

Anyway you put it, it still sucks.