I have an irrational fear of repetition.

I'm not talking about vicious cycles or OCD or any of those strange, necessarily crippling and cripplingly necessary problems.

What I mean is that, when someone repeats a sentence or a word and I don't understand why, I wonder if the universe is glitching.

I am going to be a singing scarf seller, someday. Hands folded into plump purple fists, shoulders lapped by waves of burgundy, saffron, cerulean.

My mother just handed me a paper cup full of cheese cubes and said, "Don't say I never gave you anything."

If it is possible to die of literature, that is what I'm about to do.

Where are the winds and the rain when I need them?

I have an extra ticket to see Of Montreal and Elikbass at the Blue Note on February 21. It's a Wednesday. You wanna?

You...wanna?

My arms are so sore I'm sure I must have spent last night bench pressing grizzlies.

Perhaps it was the mere weight of my clothing; seven layers of thick, itchy fabric pressing and bruising in the cold.

If not that, I'd say it was the severe drooping of shoulders as I succumbed to societal sickness and reclined restlessly on the couch.

I think I'd be better off as an amorphous solid.

WHY do I love this video so much?

we've settled for a fence.

(on the border.)

one magazine rack, seven magazines:
despair:


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