All of the names, once had meant it. Gifts on the stair, knew who'd sent it.
I am at an impasse of the soul. I can't even talk straight, let alone in clever riddles. I really like octopi and dinosaurs, but I would trade every last one of them for one bonafide prince (one in particular, that is). The honey feel of all the aching moments in my past, nostalgic for no reason, suddenly has a cause. I feel terrible that my mother bought me strawberries and I let them go to waste. There was so much to do this weekend and so little to think about. I avoided several awkward conversations. I watched several innocuous movies. I read The Last Unicorn by Peter S. Beagle. I have a feeling I will be reading a lot now. I am realizing a sort of apathy that I hadn't fully explored before, the futility of basic functions. The toilet paper roll is so tiny and I will never get to touch the scrollwork on the roof of Mr. Toad's. I don't know what to say, but I do know how to say the pledge of allegiance in sign language. I am buffing my nails because there is nothing else to do (though I know that is not true; there is nothing else I can do). Every memory is smelly and my only option is a zombie. Music in my mother's car makes me cry at the slightest imagined provocation. How am I keeping sane? I'm not sure I am, but I think it may be because I'm constantly near something purring. I am contemplating seeking advice personally from celebrities, but I think I may just end up taking their meds. I will never go back to the La Brea Tar Pits. I have never felt less like walking. In our dreams we'll meet downstairs. Don't turn away from love, Sailor.