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29 May 2002 / 1:06 a.m.
.:  sun shower

since the beginning, i have been soaked in one component of life, missing the other.

in arizona, where i grew up, the sun burned up clouds and hung in the desert sky. reno was the same, but the shadows came from sagebrush, not ocotillo cactii. in portland, i have not yet seen the sun. the clouds during the day are backlit, and at night they are like soot and pink-washed ceilings. the rain comes down in mist; there are ten thousand children armed with spray bottles overhead.

tyler, jen, and i watched basketball, then went for coffee. the coffee person played radiohead's kid a while we ate key lime pie and drank hot white chocolate, and i watched rain bead and run down windows. this was amazing to me, and here is why: in safford, a small town in arizona, coffee meant sanka in a diner that played supermarket instrumentals. the sun would cut through the spaces in the blinds and lay stripes across formica tabletops.

everything here is different. i love the rain. i miss the sun.

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