29 June 2006
boiled-looking skin, eyes the color of quarters, in his shirt sleeves and the temperature must have been 25 degrees Farenhaitstaring at Iris for just too long a beat before he turned away yet there is something about the man, the slow smile like an insinuating drawl, the working of his mouth, something that lodges, poisonous and sweet, in Iris Courtney for weeks.
Joyce Carol Oates, Because It Is Bitter, and Because It Is My Heart
Heya. I'm sorry if you've come and checked this a whole bunch in the last three weeks. I'm in a bit of inner turmoil I guess, just enough to want to lay low for a second or two, anyway.
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Things I've thought through the idea of writing of:
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I went to Six Flags today, and drove to the farmer's market this morning at like 10a, and now it's just about 4.30 in the morning, and I'm going to read more of A Tree Grows in Brooklyn (other good NY mention today courtesy of Tony Soprano) and stop this spiritual bond I'm about to develop with this laptop and this terminal I have open in particular.