August 13th, 2006



Sick as a dog, weak as a kitten.

Probably crazy as a loon, but I wouldn't know, would I?

Drinking tea and it tastes weird, like grass pissed on by a donkey (I merely imagine, never actually having tasted donkey piss.) Everything else still tastes weird as well.

I remain the opposite of happy about everything that's happening.

It would have been so much better to have been dissolved into one of those splendid midsummer days in Los Angeles twenty years ago, when the mountains were etched clearly and winds had blown the smog away. It was a rare moment and I failed to recognize the opportunity.

Bland green and brown of this wasting day rent by crow caws are not colors that can wake me from the dazed dreams I have of other places other times. They are a shroud through which I see vague forms of what might be the world passing by. It would have been better not to have seen this, ever.

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