so these past weeks. dysfunctional lines of romance (imagine that last word spoken with a thick drawling honey of irony):
-violin ben/beth @ wellconnected
-the too earnest scotsman
-the friend (oops)
-the x

and writing, short fiction. have felt inexplicably restored to energy of my "Sweet Precocious Youth" and have developed uncanny ability to edit my own work savagely and feel drastically happy about doing it. but have also discovered that since the teenagerhood i have written so much that i will never be able to deal with the copious mound, only sit on top of it guarding & lording the mass frustrated&kicking like a brush turkey.

it rains, sprinkles, brings my skin and face alive, the world in my face wild and clear the streets striking me like i'm 14 again. this mornign on the train getting on towards central, looking down at the tracks below the elevated tracks where the train was - puddles forming alone, a battered dead gothic shed, a waste, depth, and as the platforms came nearer, the men in their fluros walking along, walking along, and it migth as well have been a mountainside i felt so soaring.