I find it touching that your initials spell your postal code.
And that you cover your mouth when you smile.
And walk up the down elevator.
And own gleaming red shoes tall enough for an executive.
And swallow your watermelon seeds because someone told you a tree would sprout.

But I don't care.

Yesterday there was sunlight and Keuroack and bannana soda and everything was perfect.
And everything was so beautiful, and everyone.


Mandy with dreadlocks that don't quite suit her, and ocean colored eyes that glitter under blonde-brown brows. The cashier with the wild wiry copper hair and the most indulgent smile. The student at the mall, his sketchbook as big as the table, drawing something in scarlet and mustard for his art class with hands and feet instead of heads. There is too much gel in his hair but his eyes are clean and bright and his eyebrows sleak and Luan compliments his picture and I ask him: "Why here? It's the least artistic or even just desirable setting I can possibly imagine..."

And he tells us that he used to draw in class a lot, and now it's such a curse; even at home with the music on isn't quite enough. I tell him I like to write in the cocophny of resturaunts. But here? Everything is hotel colors, stale air, and bitter security guards. Go somewhere else, we think to say when we've already left; go to java house for once. Everyone is always talking, and the names of various drinks clutter the air and spoons hit glass hit icecubes.

Yeah.

ummm.....yes.......

I revamped my house. I made some really cool pics to put on it, but my scanners messed up......so I'm contenting myself with new computer art...