well, i wish that you could see me when i'm flying in my dreams, the way i laugh there way up high, the way i look when i fly, the way i live, the way i fly
2004-01-09 & 1:58 a.m.

my mortality grows more apparent with the aging of my parents, with the tedious connections they and i create, the major events we sidestep and the day to day trivialities that become our religion.

this theme of death creates a language of cliches that run through my head all day. (i have eaten mangoes on a rooftop in casablanca at two in the morning, but that doesn't mean i could die tomorrow.)i wish i could hear her voice, telling me it's not so bad. telling me she gets to bicycle naked all day and when she wants it to rain, it does.telling me there is a constant smell of patchouli and there's enough time to learn all the things you always wanted to. perhaps the clouds are full of people learning to speak italian, beginning to sew, or canoeing down the milky way.