sometimes

you hit a deer on your way home from Christmas,
right after you smash your iPod

and then you're back to square one:

reliant on public transportation
with a walkman in hand.


fuck!

i hate the helpless feeling of not being able to pick up and drive somewhere.
prior to yesterday my release from work stress was to
drive somewhere new
park
play something loud
and take up my fractional space in the universe.

no more of that for a while.

fuck.

cold desire

let me curl up next to your fireplace heart.

you make it so hard.

i got a typewriter

which has been my dream since i was 10 years old and wanted to be Harriet the Spy.

tonight i spent 4 hours and tried to write things that would win over his heart and soul,

even though i know
it's not a game
and there is no such thing as losing.

[[ i just want to be the closest thing to you. ]]

i've been working on piece that speaks of sex and desperation.

12.16

tomorrow let’s put whiskey to our lips and a road under our toes

let’s find a frozen lake and fill our lungs with majestic silence

i dream of a house with windows all around,

of standing with naked feet

of looking but not searching

i won't judge your destructive habits if you don't judge mine

-camera
-journal
-whiskey
-smokes
-warm socks
-happy music
-americanos with cream

we sit by his fire and look at the city with these things. he says,
you are my kind of girl.

i say, you're beautiful.



with fondness and blackberry juice,
kiagen

moonlight reminds