nichtviel

Come on, let's crash the gates. Fuck, they'll be too drunk to care; and besides, I know a few people there anyway. Take a right here. Alright, now slow down--I think I remember where this place is. Yeah, it's that one on the left. There's a big green SUV parked by the curb, and you can see the light shining on a patch of purple flowers. Hell, you can hear the music from out here. Some sort of hip hop. That won't bother you too much, will it?

That's Michael over there. The one with the big nose, yeah. He's a decent guy, but I'm surprised he's letting this happen at his place--I guess that year in Austin changed him. Oh, you better take off your shoes. Just toss them in that pile over there--silly custom, I know. But isn't this room nice? Come on, let's sit down on that big fluffy plush sofa for a minute. See that mirror above the fireplace--I swear that it stretches you out or slims you down or something, not that you need it. And I love the little stone fireplace--we could light a fire in it and break open a bottle of wine and be very sophisticated, if only they would shut up.

Old Milwaukee? Yum. Well, I guess it's not bad for the price. Alright, let's go interact with people. That's Jeffrey over there. He's not gay; he just wishes he was European. The pretty Asian girl he's talking to--that's Patricia. He thinks she's the love of his life. She's engaged to another man--they're getting married early in 2009, I think. Don't make me talk about it any more right now, please. It's not a very happy story. She's an interesting character though--book smart but no common sense at all, and when we were in Dallas last week two guys got in a wreck because they were staring at her. This guy in a tiny red car drove past with a guy in a massive black truck following him, both sets of eyes firmly on her, and then the red car stopped and bam!--the black truck rear-ended him. We got a good laugh out of the deal, and it didn't inflate her head too much.

You say the music has gotten better? Actually yeah, Shakira is a definite improvement. Did I just say that? Alright, alright, you don't have to pull me up.

blahhhhh.......... sleepy time

Why does life at home involve so many random belly dancing interludes? I mean, I guess it's not quite a daily occurrence, but any number of belly dancers greater than zero feels like far too many for Keller, Texas. Not that I'm complaining exactly, but I feel like the cosmic balance of the universe has somehow gotten very badly out of whack. Multiple villages in the Middle East are missing their belly dancers right now :( Of course, this latest one must have been pushing fifty and she may well have been plotting to take a patron or two back into the kitchen to help her support a healthy crack habit; so maybe Texas is where you send old busted belly dancers out to pasture. *shrug* At least the food was good.

We went to the Dallas Art Museum beforehand. Lots of pretty pictures and phallic statues. Pretty statues and phallic pictures. Pretty Phalluses. Anything you could ask for, really. Oh, and a massive exhibit by some OCD "artist" who insisted upon painting the date on every day of his life. Just a black canvas with the day's date painted in white. No adornment, no colors, nothing. They had his journals too--he kept track of every person he met and mapped out his travels for every single day. Brilliant?

I'm having my first gin & tonic in a long while. It almost feels like a sacrilege, not having Ali here to enjoy it with me. Pesky ocean.

The dorms are nearly empty. Caitlin and Chloe are still around, maybe or or two others, but that's it. I just pulled my very first all-nighter of sophomore year. I'm tired enough that this may be incoherent, and I still have a little packing to do, but I'm still glad I stayed up.

Lots of goodbyes the past few days. Saw some of my senior friends for the last time at the Dav three days ago. The next morning, Mary and I had a bottle of prosecco for breakfast outside--the day was gorgeous and the conversation was a sleepy pleasure--and I saw her off. Later that night, a few of us remaining (Katelyn, Mike, Chris, Kayla, I think) went out onto the volleyball courts to toss the beach party sand into the wind and have a nice big group hug. Most people left the next day.

Today was spent packing and handling various odds and ends. I went into Dupont for what I thought was the last time to pick up presents. I stopped in a little Mediterranean cafe for dinner and I heard people speaking Arabic in the kitchen. When I got my coffee, I thanked the waiter with a "shukran." He seemed surprised, but he responded "afwan." Then we spoke for a while in Arabic, or at least I tried to. He was terribly nice when I stumbled over my words, and I have a little more confidence now that I'll actually be able to eat in Egypt.

I went to Siram's later on. He and Mike and Tyler and Emily were there, and Caitlin and Chloe and Allie showed a little later. We had fun improvising drinks. Vodka + milk + chocolate syrup + cinnamon + nutmeg + vanilla extract makes for a wonderful milkshake, and scotch + apple juice + tonic water + lemon juice + confectioner's sugar + bitters tastes amazing, much better than you'd expect. We watched Blackadder. Terribly funny show, but then the ending hits you like a sack of bricks to the gut.

And then Siram and I went on a walk. We both had a cigarette as soon as we were out the door, because watching them emerge from the trenches in Blackadder does that to you; and I told him about the superstition that says you can't light three cigarettes from one match, because that will give a sniper time to shoot you. It was about 3:30, but birds were singing, so we couldn't be too morose we decided. And we started walking and talking and reminiscing. It rained off and on as we walked, but those birds were usually there singing in the background.

During that terribly strange November last semester, Siram and I went on one especially embarrassing walk. We saw a black iron cutout of a man, about three feet tall, out in the street to warn cars of a crosswalk. And I jokingly mentioned something about the man following us, and Siram went on with the joke, and we kept building it up until somehow we worked ourselves into a proper fright about the little black man chasing us through the city. It was worse than you can probably imagine.

Somehow tonight we wandered to the same intersection where the little black man used to be. He was gone, but he had been replaced by a bright new little white man. He had a little red cap on, and he looked so very friendly. We took this to be wonderfully symbolic and had quite the laugh over it.

We walked all the way to Dupont Circle and we ducked into Kramer's for one last visit. We talked for awhile and watched the rain through the window and I had a cup of coffee or three. Per usual, the conversation was a pleasure. When we left, I learned that my lighter was finally kicked, which left us both a little disappointed. We walked back from Dupont, reliving other conversations we'd had on those streets. The route we took was the same one we took back after Halloween freshman year, I think.

After we got back to Siram's, he got a matchbook and gave it to me. It was filled with the best matches I've ever had--they lighted in the rain without a hitch. As we were talking outside, a man left the building. The first and the last thing he said to us--"It's a little wet, but it'll be alright."

Do you remember that street in Adams Morgan? You know the one I'm talking about. We had dinner there so very long ago--Ethiopian food, I think. We took the Metro there, and then we walked across the bridge and we didn't talk very much, but you complained that I was walking too fast. I really was sorry. But then we got our food and it tasted lovely and it wasn't too spicy at all--I think you even ate more than I did. And we fought over the last piece of bread and you finally had to tickle me to get it, but I think we both knew all along that I wanted you to have it.

When we left the restaurant, it was raining outside. Cars were speeding down the street and their headlights refracted in the rain and then the light refracted in my glasses so I was almost blinded. I had to look away from the street so I saw all the shops we passed by and sometimes I snuck a glance at you. Remember that bar we passed? That African man was standing outside, and he kept crying in that near-indecipherable lyrical accent, "Come on in. Best music in town. You and lady have good time here." We didn't go inside, and I thought the music filtering out into the street was awful, but you danced to it anyway. You danced in the sidewalk in the middle of the rainstorm, but when you realized that I was watching you flashed me a smile and then stopped.

And there was that perfect little townhouse across the street. Everywhere the walls were pockmarked by old storms and in a few spots the red brick was faded almost pink. The windows had green shutters (I'll bet it was bright green once, but they needed to be repainted desperately), and you could see a light glowing from inside. I'd hoped that we could see into the house, but just as we got closer someone drew the shutters. From across the street, you said that the windows were awfully low, but when we got closer we saw that the house was sunken down a ways below ground level. You had to pass through a brick archway and walk down a few black iron steps before you got to the green door--this paint was still bright.

It's funny... I ran into the owner today. You never would have guessed it was him--he was wearing Bermuda shorts and an ill-fitting bright blue Hawaiian shirt and his hair was just beginning to grey around the temples. We met inside the Starbucks when he mistook my iced coffee for whatever five-named sweet abomination he was having. But we got to talking, and he mentioned that he was selling his house so he could start a new business venture in the Czech Republic--something or other about diet pills, but I couldn't pay it much mind. Still, he was very anxious to get rid of the house. You wouldn't want to take a look inside that green door, would you?

The past few days have been ugly. Ugly, ugly, ugly. It's because it's finals time, maybe, but I was a good deal happier around this time last year. I want away for my sanity, but I will miss some people immensely.

Taking the time machine back a few days: Saturday night was pandemonium, but mostly of a beautiful sort. Caitlin and Siram and I had been planning the party for about a week; I won't say that it went off without a hitch, but all of the bumps were smoothed over, somehow. Chloe insisted that we leave for the party at 9:15, and at 9:00 she decided to start baking an apple crisp to say thank you (for the birthday celebration that hadn't started yet and wouldn't ever start until she made it down there). And at 9:15 she said that the crisp would be ready at 9:30, and at 9:30 she clarified that she meant ready to bake. Eventually she decided to finish making it at the party, and so we left around 10:00 with the half-baked (in all senses of the word) crisp. But if I sound annoyed, I'm not--it was a very sweet gesture.

I helped Siram get the drinks out, get some music going, etc. The sangria was fruity and delicious--maybe too much so; I think some people forgot that there was actually alcohol in it. Vodkamelon was quite the popular fellow, too. I was tired, so I planned to spend most of the party sitting on the roof with Shamus drinking sangria and smoking and enjoying the view, but it didn't take long for the party to follow us up. Everyone was excited to be up there (the rain had finally stopped). And then somehow we all appeared downstairs again to sing Happy Birthday and dance. Caitlin's cake was lovely, and Girl Talk works magic. It was a good time.

When we left, Chloe decided that we needed to go for a run. So we jogged along the streets near the Cathedral, enjoying the scenery, Chloe singing in French the whole way. Then the pavement was broken, and my foot hit it in just the wrong way, and I went flying through the air and then I stopped flying. Chloe helped me up, still singing. I still have scrapes and bruises. When we passed the Berks on our way back, Chloe asked for one of the balloons that were floating on the sign outside, so I cut a red one off for her.

Time machining back about 16 hours: Mary and I took the bus to Georgetown for a house tour. We showed up at the church a little after noon, easily the youngest people there. Sunlight filled the air, and it may have been just a little too warm, but when there was a breeze (and there usually was) you couldn't complain. The day was a whirlwind of stone archways and backyard ponds and window seats and hobbit doors. I wish I were more awake and I wish my memory was better--maybe I'll try to describe it all tomorrow.

After every house or two, we would find some little diversion. We had tea and snacks at the church, and a cafe nearby was giving away wonderful free baguettes, and a nice man at a wine shop gave us a couple glasses of prosecco, and enterprising children were everywhere selling lemonade. But the pool was the best. We turned the wrong way down a back alley after leaving a house, and we wound up in someone's backyard. A backyard with a swimming pool with ducks lounging around it. And so Mary and I walked up to it and she sat and dangled her legs in the water and I rolled my pantlegs up and did the same. It wasn't badass--no matter what Mary says--but it was the best sort of mischief and wonderfully relaxing. Eventually a light in the house came on and we snuck away.

We got some excellent pizza in a cafe Mary recommended afterwards. She's brilliant. While we waited on our dinner, we had baguettes and cheese and blood orange lemonade--very Parisian of us. It was a lovely day, but very bittersweet.

Hiro is sitting in the lounge wearing nothing but his boxers. He's rubbing lotion on himself. wtf?

Let's move into that old stone house. You know, the one just on the outskirts of the city. The lawn is so very big, bigger than you'd ever expect to find in the city. There's a lovely rock path leading up to the front door, and petunias flank it on both sides--mostly purple, but here and there you can see a pink one winking at you. And there are a few oak trees in the yard; judging by their size, they must be ancient. The remains of a wooden swing hangs from one of the trees; I heard that the owner's son used to play on it, but he left for Romania so many years ago and hasn't been back since.

The owner is some sort of retired diplomat. He comes with a bad hip and Alzheimer's and an old tendency to booze. Sometimes, in the early mornings, you can see him in the street outside in nothing but his underwear and one boot. I don't know what he's doing there, and I don't suspect that he does either. His wife, once-upon-a-time a minor actress and at least twenty years his younger, always comes out soon to shuffle him back inside, apologizing profusely to no one in particular. There's a tiny black kitten--I don't know whether or not it belongs to them--who always watches this display quite intently. I heard that they're selling the house and moving soon. The climate doesn't suit them.

Off to the side of the house is a big stone archway. It's seen better days, but that only adds to the charm. I suspect that it leads to a garden; I can see a plot of big bright yellow flowers through the arch and I can hear the trickling of a fountain, but I've never been back there. Right by the arch, a white trellis reaches all the way up to the thatched roof. It looks like it's been painted recently. Vines crawl all the way up the trellis and tiny red flowers bloom from it here and there and honeysuckle grows near the bottom--I bet it tastes wonderful.

You can see into a room on the ground level. There's a red leather couch near the window, quite comfortably stuffed. And there are books floating in the air right by the sofa; upon second glance, you realize that they're sitting on a small glass table, so very well-polished. An old-fashioned iron lamp shines on the couch--the sole lonely source of illumination in the room, usually. But on the dusky far side of the room, you can make out bookcases upon bookcases, stocked full of paperbacks that just might crumble if you sneezed on them and a few leather-bound hardcovers that must be important, if only due to their venerable age. I wish I had time to read them all.

Sometimes, you can see into a room up top. The walls are papered in the palest blue, and a Third Reich style bed lies against the far wall. Dark wooden tables flank each side of the bed; a stacks of books sits on one, and a big brown bottle always seems to be on the other. At night, the tattered white curtains are always drawn quite tastefully.

I nearly saw the wrong end of a sunrise this morning. Sometimes this happens for good reasons, but not today--I was working on a website for a class presentation on the Bosnian War. I don't quite understand why professors that can barely use technology themselves insist upon integrating it into their classes. But the presentation itself went well enough. Later, we talked more about Darfur, and my professor mentioned the expanded UN peacekeeping mission that was arriving. A girl piped up that this only meant that we would be hearing about human trafficking in Darfur in two years. The class laughed as one, and then the class gave itself a shocked gasp as one. Gallows humor beats depression, I guess.

After class, I went on a nice long walk. The sun was shining and most of the cherry blossoms were still blooming and an almost-frightening number of squirrels were running about. More days should be this pretty. I ran a few errands, and then I decided a glass of wine would be good, so I went to S&R. The employees were lounging about drinking wine (the ideal occupation), and they invited me to join them. I had a couple glasses of French red--one pinot noir and one merlot/cabernet blend--and we had a nice chat about wine. Mostly they taught me things and I said, "hmm... interesting." Apparently lots of California wines are watered down and have extra sugar added. Who knew?

Some of the old ennuis (still love that word, Ali) rose up after sunset. I was on the phone lots. Mary and I had one of our bouts of chainsmoking. Awful habit, but the conversation can be nice. Her Newport menthols make me smile, but nothing will ever top our old pack of Marlboro reds.

When I went on a walk tonight, I passed two girls sitting on the curb talking. They were still there when I came back. Right after I passed them, I heard one yell: "I'm like on fire! I'm not wearing a bra and it hurts so bad!"

Hi, I'm sorry I'm late. I was walking back from Tenley and enjoying that funny purple color the sky turns just after the sun sets. I was smoking my very last clove; I decided to play tennis instead of buying more--but that's probably less turning over a new leaf than falling prey to the whims of the day. Up the sidewalk came a mass of beard and plaid:
"Hey"
"Hello?"
"Hey man... Tommy, right? I remember... you look like a hippy. Thanks again for that sandwich."
"Oh, hey Bob, don't worry about it."
"How are you doing?"
Insert exchange of complaints about the crises of the day.
"So is what I told you true?"
"Sorry, what's that?"
"The curse of the Virgo, man."
"Oh... yeah, maybe it is."
"We're cursed, the two of us. It's not our fault. It's just that when one thing goes wrong, it all has to go to hell. That's what the stars say."
"Damn."
"Yeah, but you're still young. You can beat it."
"I hope so."
"You can, just don't give up."

So that's it--the stars are misaligned. It's their fault I'm late. But they can be very pretty, sometimes.

Katelyn and I are in the desert. Dunes stretch out to the horizon on all sides; the sky is a twilight purple; we're standing near a rocky outcropping in the sand. A Russian mobster is trying to kill Katelyn. He's standing on the rocks pointing a pistol at her, threatening to shoot her. She screams, I pull out a silver revolver, the Russian trains his gun on me. After staring each other down for a moment, we agree to drop our guns into the sand and resume this later. He turns around and walks into a cave hidden in the rocks, unnoticed until this point. I pick my gun up, and Katelyn and I follow him.

Inside of the cave is what initially appears to be a fancy bar. It's crowded, and we've lost our Russian. I recognize a dark Arab man sitting at the bar, and I walk up to him. Without saying a word, he drops a few silver bullets into my hand. I look into my revolver and see one bullet sitting in the chamber; otherwise, the gun is empty. I thank the Arab and walk away. Finally, I get a good look at the bar--misshapen bottles and art deco chairs and sickly flowers and glass tubes with pinks and oranges flowing through. I see the Russian; we have some sort of conversation and leave the bar. I don't remember what happens next, but I know I return to the bar, so I assume I won.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I dreamt a tiny Asian man was doing room inspections. I was worried, because Mike was drunk and belligerent and I thought he would pick a fight with the tiny Asian. I wish I remembered more of this.

Disclaimer: I had this dream a couple of nights ago; the details are already a little fuzzy.

Everyone significant from AU was staying at Tyler's house. It was a beautiful old country estate with vines crawling up the walls and a big wooden porch out back and a study full of books and leather sofas; it was nowhere near the city. Tyler said it had been in his family for generations. A ways down the road was a terribly eccentric neighbor, but he was friendly towards Tyler's family. During some past war (the Civil War?), he invented a flamethrower to drive away troops that were attacking Tyler's house; another time (during the same war?), he sheltered Tyler's family when enemy soldiers came for them. I don't know why Tyler's family was in so much trouble with foreign armies.

After staying at the house a few days, things turned strange. Tables and chairs started moving around, and we heard despairing moans at night, and eventually Mel got sick. A doctor came to look at her, and he said that she didn't seem to have any sort of disease. He inspected the house, and he told us he suspected it was haunted, and the haunting could be the cause of Mel's illness. But there was nothing he could do to help--he feared Mel would die if we didn't deal with our ghost problem.

Desperate for some sort of help, I decided to see Tyler's neighbor. By this time, it was storming and the rain was coming down in torrents and the wind felt as if it would rip the house off its foundations. Finally, I arrived at the neighbor's house--he was working inside of what looked like a large garage with the door open to the rain. In the center of the room was what appeared to be a hospital bed with straps attached to a mechanical contraption--metal plates and a large vacuum tube containing the occasional bolt of blue lightning. And on the side of the room was a large wooden table holding a glass container. Inside of the glass was a beautiful blonde girl in a white dress holding a bouquet of flowers to her chest--she was dead, I worry. I told the neighbor of our problems, and he told me that a ghost was draining Mel's life energy. She would die if we didn't stop it soon; but using his machine, he could some of our life energy to replenish hers.

I went back to tell Tyler. He decided to give his life energy to her. We ventured back out into the storm, which had grown even worse. Even walking was difficult, the ground was such a muddy morass. When we arrived at his neighbor's house, Tyler panicked--he couldn't give up his life (a terribly un-Tyler-esque action, and the big clue it was a dream). But Mel would die without someone's energy, so I let the doctor strap me up to the machine. The lightning in the tube grew more intense, and eventually it started flashing out into the room. My thoughts grew hazy, and I felt very weak, and the world around me seemed to be fading away--I can't describe the feeling properly, but it was awful. Tyler's neighbor shut off the machine and said he had done all he could; hopefully the energy would make it to Mel. I stood up and Tyler supported me back home. The door closed behind us.

When we returned, everyone was gathered frenetic around a sofa in the study. Mel was lying on it. We hoped that we had cured her. We hadn't; she was feeling much worse and was barely able to remain conscious. I heard the moaning again and then I woke up.

Hi, do you remember that drawing I did when I was younger? No, not the one where I had to draw something scary, and I drew that time when I tried to get a fork out of the drawer in the kitchen and a cockroach jumped out at me and nearly flew into my mouth, even though that one was pretty good. I mean the one where I had to show what I would be when I grew up--I planned to be an architect and design video games and be the very first astronaut on Mars. I was in my spacesuit and I was standing in front of one of my buildings and I had something like a gameboy (but better) in my hand. The building was green, but I hadn't read Gatsby in first grade, so it was just a pretty color (my very favorite). And back in first grade, I was a good artist, even though I haven't improved very much since, and my teacher said it was very good and I could be anything I wanted to be. But I'm not on Mars right now.

I'm not alone in Keller. I guess that shouldn't be surprising, but I acted as if I was for the first few days of break. But somehow my hiding place was revealed, and I've been cast back out into the world of people again. Honestly, it hasn't been so bad.

I went to a little Vietnamese cafe with a not-so-little crowd of people today for a late lunch/snacks/tea. The waitresses were lovely to us, but their ability to speak English wasn't; we wound up playing a terribly confusing game of musical tables, and a few shrimp showed up in places where shrimp should never ever show. At least they stayed out of my tea. Speaking of which, I had a chilled red bean tea with tapioca bubbles. Take a moment--ponder how unappetizing that sounds. And now invert everything that you're thinking, because it was really rather good. Just don't ask me to describe the taste--all I can say is that it was unique.

Too much of the meal was spent bashing Mason. Every group needs its punching bag, I guess. But I feel a little foolish sticking up for him--and you can only feel so bad for him--when he spits out gems like: "I failed my scuba diving class because the lake looked dirty so I wouldn't dive in"; and "Your shot didn't hurt? It's supposed to hurt. That means they gave you fake medicine." He was dead serious.

Patricia and Jeffrey and I broke off from the main group and spent far too much time reminiscing. If these are supposed to be the best years of our lives, then why did the three of us half-wish we were back in high school? Of course, we hated high school at the time; maybe these messy projects just need a gloss of nostalgia in order to be beautiful. Or maybe not. In the past nine months, our circle has witnessed three engagements, two births, and one death. I wake up some mornings feeling old.

I went on a walk with my dad earlier this evening (one of the big pleasures of being home), and we spent a while discussing business-y things--the feasibility of a voluntary carbon market in the Texas construction industry, and other such excitement--and I think he actually took my advice seriously. Now I know I'm old. Those little revelations where you realize your parents are more than just mommy and daddy are always strange, but not in a bad sort of way.

The weather is female, and she's beautiful, and--for the past few days, at least--she's been quite flirtatious with me. I like it. I went outside to feed Spot earlier today; and for the briefest few moments, a smell filled my nose--faint and a touch bitter but hinting at splendiferousness; that's the best I can describe it. Is this how the world smells?

Some while ago, I read Andy Warhol's philosophy of life. Something inspired me to pull a few quotes out of the beginning bit, and I just came across the document I saved them in:

I wake up every morning. I open my eyes and think: here we go again. (5)

As soon as you stop wanting something, you get it. I've found that to be absolutely axiomatic. (23)

Love affairs get too involved, and they're not really worth it. But if, for some reason, you feel that they are, you should put in exactly as much time and energy as the other person. In other words, "I'll pay you if you pay me." (43)

People look the most kissable when they're not wearing makeup. Marilyn's lips weren't kissable, but they were very photographable. (54)

People's fantasies are what give them problems. If you didn't have fantasies, you wouldn't have problems because you'd just take whatever was there. But then you wouldn't have romance, because romance is finding your fantasy in people who don't have it. A friend of mine always says, "Women love me for the man I'm not." (55)

To think about the love problems of people you know is really strange, because their love problems are so different from their life problems. (56)

I'm writing a story. I think that's what I want it to be about.

when I’m a magician I’ll make you vanish
won’t your friends miss you! they’ll
shake their heads scour the stage quarter
the auditorium rummage all the haunted corners

38 bus ten in the morning
walnut cake at Valentino’s
Flowers at the George
their gaze falls on the bar-door
of the Costa Dorada 47 Hanway Place W1

but they don’t find you anywhere
imagine the surprise! I step back on stage
open my heart reveal you there

~M John Harrison

I'm now the owner of a livejournal. I didn't ask for one; in fact, I always thought they were a little bit silly; and, were I of the type to say anything definite ever, I would have sworn definitely that I would never get one. But now I'm a member of the silly masses, and it's all your fault, my dear Alison. Thanks.

What do I have to say, anyway? And who wants to listen to it? They say that these outpourings of emotion--when you're really sincere, at least--are less an imposition that a bequeathal; but the last time I tried to bequeath anything to anyone, they were really quite flattered but couldn't it wait 'till a better time; and so I took my bequeathal down the hall, but someone took that as invitation to impose all their damnable day's minor crises on me; and so finally I took my heart outside to the nice homeless man--what else does he have to do with his time?--but when he realized that all of my words were never going to add up to even a fifth of Tenley vodka, he fell asleep. Blast.

But now I'm home, and I can see so many beautiful stars in the sky again. One of them fell down when I walked outside last night. I hope it didn't hurt itself too badly.