November 21, 2009


I wrote a really long post about my dreams (literal meaning, I only just woke up) and anonymous letters and being a child but I've erased it all. It's a saturday afternoon (nearly evening) and I have no energy left to open such things. The house is quiet but I can hear my mom's fingers on the piano. Just the fingers, never the music. She keeps it to her ears. I can also hear the trains pass and, occasionally, the sound of the car honk blaring at a cyclist/pedestrian/self minded prejudice/another car.

Silent saturdays are not what I live for but at this point in time they're only satisfying. Better than numbers, better than geography, better than the search for a jewel toned cloud(ed judgement) of a friday night (the friday night). I think lazy saturdays are more justifiable than lazy sundays are. Sundays are bad for the soul. They turn me into the empty shells on shelves; the kind to sing the echoes of its first impressions of my home, the sea. Sundays should not be filled with the sounds of saturday's echoes, no. I think sunday should have a sound of its own.

December 12th.


  1. i don't know what my sundaes sound like, but they taste like strawberry sometimes.

    where did you take that? (photo)

  2. I love sundaes.

    Actually that's a lie. I hate sundaes. But I'm just thinking about the sundaes from McDonald's. They weren't very nice at all.

    McFlurries, on the other hand..

    Did you realise it was prom night? By the entrance of the ballroom. Looking back this was the most pointless photograph in the history of pointless photographs.