>From Purgatory, New Hampshire It is April 1st and appropriately raining. Everything is covered in water, even the air is saturated. The town has become a sponge, soaking up the sky. In places it can take no more, but you can tell it wants to. Small pools of overflow form, brown. Between thoughts of love and cigarettes, I have invented a new way of drowning. Moisture and smoke. I am anxious. We all share warmth, water, and air, and still there's a dry spot on a dirty car. I can't believe how insolently inconsistent the world can be. The pavement is the darkest blue and only glossy when you walk away far enough from the light to let it collect. Moving away from things brings them closer together. This is what we are afraid of here. Why we can't let go. Why we all suffer together. I couldn't cry over a broken pencil that described, exactly, how I felt, broken, and in the rain, on the ground. It comes out instead as the desire to clean your clock, fuck you up, make you ugly and broken.
_______________________________________________ Five7Five mailing list [EMAIL PROTECTED] http://www.pairlist.net/mailman/listinfo/five7five
