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4.16.01 - 10:27

hello. i'm here. i suppose. i am listening to a song called 'the rainbow.' it's by a happy-sounding lo-fi indie band named the apples in stereo. i really like that happy-sounding lo-fi indie stuff. especially when they're singing about non-happy things. the irony is something that feels good in my mouth. unlike the irony of certain other things.

what is it about music? i think someone's making some toast in this apt. that's what it smells like. so either the place is burning down or there's some toast being made. don't worry. we do have a fire extinguisher in this apt. oh, and sprinklers, too. we're totally fire safe. whatever. my smoke alarm has a battery in it. the air conditioner at this time is not on.

now i am listening to a song called '20 miles south of nowhere' by michael mcdermott, he of 'lantern' fame. if i had a lantern, i'd light the way for you. i quoted more of that in some other entry. the smell of bread toasting is also like the smell of water boiling. not actually the water boiling but the stuff in the heating element and on the bottom of the pot and all. i remember from all the years of growing up and smelling toast and finding out it was just a pot of water. boiling. not that i would run down the stairs in hopes of finding toast. i would just happen upon the water eventually. you know how it is.

he was getting all riled up because i 'throw like a girl'. ha. 'you gotta run for it, you gotta dive for it.' he demonstrates. that's salt water in your eyes, you know. that stings. oh, but you got your hands on it. that's quite important. but see, what i'm saying is that i really don't care about that enough to run and dive under salt water. or regular water. like how i won't run for public transportation. or private transportation. or many things. sometimes it's hard for me to picture things i really want. want badly. i remember running through an airport once because i was on the verge of missing the last flight of the day. maybe this happened twice. i think it might have. i think it's just the airport environs that sucked me in to that whole mentality though because i can't even remember where the flights were going and surely if they were so important i'd remember. i don't know. i don't really think that's a great way to measure importance anyway. what are you willing to die for? or maybe you'd rather run for it.

how many times did i click my heels three times and wish on the sound of it? i don't know. there is a space in life where it is so easy, so appealing to believe in magic. the time before you need to have things explained. the time before you need to explain yourself. the time when you are open to the world and accepting of everything you meet. or is there really such a time? a time when you believe in goodness and there doesn't have to be a reason for good things happening because good things should happen, do happen, are meant to happen. sometimes i thought it was because i had the wrong shoes. but it wasn't the shoes. i got past that phase. believe me.

everybody bears scars. we all know that. i'm not talking about those scars we don't see. the psychological bruising and whatnot. i'm talking about the hurt, the pain, the marks that are left as a reminder so i can run my fingers up and down lines marked in my skin and feel the heat of that pain again. so i can remember. that's what it's about, right. memories. the way we're marked. the way we mark ourselves. the way you carry those marks. what they mean to you. i'm thinking about scars. we all have them. that's something.

you have to remember things like the big o, the missing piece, being a child, being awestruck, the majesty you find only in nature, the power of music, the way it feels to love someone, the way it feels to be loved. if nothing else, you can put your arms around it and hold it close to you, just for a minute. sometimes it doesn't even matter what someone says to you. sometimes it does. there are those scars we can't see, too. i don't know if i really want to talk about them. we all have those, too. they throb like a headache when they're fresh. sting like what, not an open wound because that's too predictable and we won't think about how an open wound really feels, though with this bit of extended discussion, maybe you are thinking about the feel of an open wound, the skin torn, not quite meeting, the air on blood and the blood and your eyes and the feeling of it all rushing to your head, maybe you are thinking about it. the sting of it, that acute feeling, like the feeling at that moment you know the mosquito has bitten you, you swat it away maybe, but you've felt that prick, and you know it's too late. sometimes you smack it and it leaves this bloodied body behind, the blood not its blood but yours, or someone else's. this kind of thing is curious, when you don't know whose blood you're wiping off of your fingers.

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