In the dream, my brother had blue, blue eyes. I awoke confused. His eyes had always been brown like mine.
While shampooing, I had an itch under my left eye. What a panic to have an itch near your eye and yet know your hands are toxic.
It was then I decided to begin a diet.
Why is it that sometimes milk goes bad before the sell-by date? Yet other times, like now, the milk is good for days after.
I imagine that it is so cold that all my toes freeze to the sidewalk underneath my Vans. It would be so hard to balance without my bottom ten digits to maneuver by.
I realize that I am not sad for Derrick because it is not pity that he needs. It is not quite compassion, merely its off-spring help.
The knife slices out careful rectangles of sourdough. Later, I will have to change to triangles. Incidentally, will this make me fat?
What does it make me if I am trying to out-snob, as it were, in a snobby class? And why hadn't anyone made me read Faulkner yet? Let me be literate because I want to know literature because I want to write because I want. I want so badly. Everything seems so acute right now, so liminal. In these moments, I am the liminal figure that I always analyzed in texts.
You are my happiness, which is wonderful and frightening. It is wonderful because I have you. It is frightening because it makes me vulnerable with the feeling of how-could-I-exist-without-you?
I make a start with a crunch.
Sl, p1, k1, p1, k1, p1, k1, p1, [sl, k1] 6 times, then rep. Purl a row and think of waking in tomorrow.