it's all about the belle and sebastian, the wilco, bright eyes (going for the gold), the rattly piano and acoustic guitars. the sun filters through clouds overhead and bounce off the green leaves. pour some liquor into a glass and sit on the porch, watching it go. i get letters from the nicest boy on earth and it's black ink scratched onto a white surface or black letters typed onto blue screen. it looks like sky outside. slide into a desk to write a page about renaissance portraits or engravings, tempera or oil. i'm working on it. waffle pockets filled with syrup. i'm subtley alone. i hate the word cuddles but that's what sounds good. jack played a good set on monday night. and we got milkshakes afterwards. there's not much to talk about but it feels good. like a friend feels sexy. b/c you know what i mean. and silouettes fall into place and i'm running forever. and you'd be there at the end. the you i don't know yet. the lithographs upstairs are amazing. and the colors pop like fruit juice between the teeth and gums. this friday this friday this friday you are the roots that sleep beneath my feet and hold the earth in place. and i wish i could string the words together that tell you what i mean. pink underwear is still hidden in the wooden dresser drawer and there is a pile of dirty laundry in a box in the closet. i can feel it melting away.