it's strange to me how I can smell your cigarettes in hot water, in
hair spray. putting things off until we ultimately can't do them. my
own face being sold at a film noir gallery, weird as hell. these
summer nights when even the touch of a blanket stings and the fan
blows and I think of your shoulder blades and how I would rather them
be the ones keeping me cool. I got your cd, tracks three and eleven
gave me chills that you could see through my sleeves. my posture
hasn't changed since I was little and the only thing keeping me
standing up was being in a ball. the bottoms of my feet are beginning
to not feel anything and that's just how I like it.