are out there.
30 oct 2003 / 1:40 p.m.
i have a cold: discarded tissues willed with snot and grit. i am skipping yoga and staring out the window
the air outside is busy - wind is gusting down from the mountains. the valley is filled with smoke and ash and dust. the clouds are boiling, and the sun is piss-weak and hazy. the fierce leaves still clinging to the elms let go, let go.
my grandfather is a glider pilot. he likes to remind me that the atmosphere is an ocean: mutable, fluid, shifting. we are the same - mud that sat up, made from air and ocean, hello + goodbye in the same breath.
we hate change / we are change
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