December 5, 1998

i live in a snow globe.

i slept on the freeway, so i'm not tired anymore. what the hell am i doing here? whisper that i'm pretty. a genius under bated breath. what do you know about suffering anyway? the bird is screaming in my hair and the music speaks to me like rain. i want to run naked, screaming in the streets. if it weren't for my borrowed self-conciousness i would.

okay. i'm okay. confused and wildly out of control and crying and dying and wishing it were all a beautiful dream. okay. you see? i'm okay. we've done this before. this battered, abused child in the basement bullshit. no one dares speak a word. secrets. like candy. wish harder, breathe harder, speak invaguely, free to act like this anytime i want to. i'm flying. waiting to crash. waiting to land. waiting to find that damn cd.

i'm all wrong. if you haven't seen it by now you never will. tell me a story. your story, ours. i'll leave the room if i'm someone else. give me something more than shadows and equivocal silences. don't leave me to assume things or it's the worst. *sigh* i can't ask the questions. i've too many of my own to answer. but it's beautiful anyway.

dreams make me move. i'm lying still, face down on the floor. just don't let me lose my pen.