*train of thought*
<< 7:13 p.m. - Sunday, Dec. 08, 2002 >>
Step outside. Take a quick breath. A walk with Kasha.

Hands in pockets. I brush my thumb across the cut on my palm. Small pieces of skin like tiny glass shards that poke muscle. �How did I get this cut?� I ask. Flowers cut me I remind myself. A porcelain bundle with sharp edges; kitschy polish decoration my aunt thrust in my hand a year ago.

I pinched the cut and watched the blood pool up in a half sphere. What if the blood was blue? Or purple? That Sting song said something about blood. What was it? Oh��Back in time with Louis XVI * At the court of the people he was number one * He�d be the bluest blood they�d ever seen * When the king said hi to the guillotine.�

That�s about class though � what is the point of this? All of it? Why am I even here? Just to live? Just to experience a spark of life before I rot in the ground?

- Like, I like to crunch leaves. What does that mean? Does everything have to be a metaphor? I am so tired of that. Can�t I just say something without some underlying meaning? Without subconscious talking to me?

-Cross the street-

Why is she still over there? Dumb dog. She is just like me, always resisting, until it�s her own idea. Do pets represent their owners? I don�t like that. Kasha is neurotic and shakes a lot. Ehhh�

That house is so empty. One light on. No furniture, no paintings. So lonely looking. How do houses represent a person? Oh! Here I am at this symbolism thing again. Commercialism creates this for us. What does anarchy have to do with housing?

Woah! What a wind. Some kind of phantom stirring leaves around to be slapped into my face. Can wind rake my soul? What does that mean? I use all these nice sounding phrases and really have no concept of what they mean. It�s doubtful we have a soul at all. We take our lives so seriously. Oh! Home already!