April 2004


The uncomfortable minutes erode from existance slowly as I sit. I wait for time to end, an improbable happening, the elastic that stretches my afternoon and snaps back to evening, leaving nothing done. There is a certain plane that guides such ruminations, flying away with my thoughts and seeing new sounds. One wonders why a dog, in the wake of a dream, knows he is a dog, and yet she is human. The yellowness rubbed off onto my pillow and stayed there, a stain that smelled of crushed grass.

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