I am surrounded all of a sudden by stubbed-out clove cigarette butts, airborne ash, and Leo Kottke guitar instrumentals sounding like a thousand startled cavalry. Crim has been abandoned, Civ Pro is a jilted lover demanding to know where I've been for the last month, Contracts has packed up and moved out. It's 25 degrees out and too dark to see Saint John the Divine. I'm getting through not-studying Civ Pro by seeking refuge in scat humor (res judicaca and colonic estoppel, e.g.) and carefully snipping shears around Czech elk drawings for use in collages/Christmas wrappings. Now the spare bedroom/office smells like stale smoke and I'm worried that if I lift the bulletin board from its mooring I'll see a rectangular patch of whiter paint behind it, like what happens when lifelong smokers die and their belongings are removed but their negatives are still on the wall, Vesuvius-like, and the estranged children who are assessing property value shirk in disgust. I think maybe I'm dehyrdated?
Tuesday, December 13, 2005
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