24 DEC 06
Maybe we'd go all the way. It is well known where this leads. I would alter little things in everybody’s story. They agreed, monthslong bipartisan. Curious about the attribute "hard to talk to." I still feel I should know why.
It might as well be the first week of December at my Christmas tree farm. The sound of sawing. People cutting down their tree, having their moment. I could cut it for them, but that's what they really love: doing it themselves. What they're really buying is the memory--made by hand, not improvised, not left to chance. I fall into bed exhausted from helping them tie it on their car roof, into the back of their truck, the one they brought down. The one I planted long ago. Exhausted from the sentiment, the scent of it filling the air.
"Experimental art is never tragic. It is a prelude." There was an original French version. Went to the supermarket and got sad there. Meanwhile, she furiously attempted to get out two submissions, didn't make it in time for the post, decided to believe in a later deadline.
Philosophical equivalent of "temporary crown." Can you talk about how it changes color and is chunks? Because, someday, I might want to know. Pining, the soul felt its worth. In sin and error. The slave is our brother. I seem to forget so soon what anything is about. Our weakness no stranger.
Lay thus.
. . .
