i am angry today. snippy without reason.

i ran 9 kilometres, and listened to music loud. i tried to make the negatives flow out under my feet but my mind wasn't having any of it. so i've turned to words. and they help.

i wrote a little poem this morning, recalling pockets of loose change and how they clang and clutter into a pay phone and how that sound made young hearts clang and flutter... I have also turned back to Winterson.
right now i want nothing more than to have her books with me, and curl up in a soft chair in a warm place, and read.

alas all her books are in boxes in budapest, far away, and financially, almost impossibly slow.

so i content myself with pieces.

“Do you wake up as I do, having forgotten what it is that hurts or where, until you move? There is a second of consciousness that is clean again. A second that is you, without memory or experience, the animal warm and waking into a brand new world. There is the sun dissolving the dark, and light as clear as music, filling the room where you sleep and the other rooms behind your eyes.”
the other rooms behind my eyes. they exist. and often they are furnished with such delicate and exquisite detail. i had a room once with a canary yellow couch, when the real world had not crept in yet and i fully believed in possibility.