It's wearing on me a little. It's the color of dinginess. An unbleached sheet, overwashed or just unclean. I need some sunlight. Maybe this is what made that Texas inmate pop out his eyeball and eat it. Such weather. Yes, that was very insensitive of me but all my muscles ache and it's cold, even with the help of the pscychedelic Amish volcano holding its breath of a space heater and "fireplace" that my parent sent. It's oddly groovy but I don't think it intends its grooviness. Which begs the question of painting it into awareness. If it were say some funky green, a blue breathing purplish, maybe then it would take credit for its opium-den possibilities.
Emmylou Harris tells me that she's "drunk all I could swallow, now the moon's gotta follow me home" and this is the kind of winter's night that highfives Ms. Emmylou and feels her moonlight inebriation to the marrow of its shaking bones. Soon, I hot bubblebath with all of my lovely lavender and white tea goodies from World Market that I was given as a present. Even a candle. And some overpriced "Gypsy" tea because I have been a very productive thing today, in spite of today's attempt to trip me.
"Some nights are umbilical corded to memory and A keeps the scissors nearby for the numerous snippings, and she walks to the laundry room with her darks neatly divided out because it's January and Monday will make her reach for her funereal garb. Today was so drab that any color--her fabulous hottest pink scarf, the emerald she wears to remind her about May and all that might have been, blared against the day like television turned on too loudly. Better to give in, the grays and navies, the black sweater, the espresso-dark skirt, nothing so flashy as deep plum until the light again suggests a world where flora is possible."
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