12:24 a.m. Ah well phone, you're not going to ring. At least tonight. Though maybe in fact you will. Though you probably will not. Phone, phone, you're just an inanimate object, you're not prone to my guilt-tripping and reverse psychologies. Damn you.

You're probably asleep on Jaime's floor, pleasantly stoned, and Conor is probably sprawled atop you, his pale freckled skin glowing with constellations from some other galaxy. Jaime's probably druggily playing his sitar with a greasy teaspoon, stopping only now and again to inhale from a rather ridiculously sized balloon. You can barely remember me, let's not even consider your ability to pick up a phone.

Sleep sweet, sweet spider, I'm going to bed. Goodnight.

the Funny Show

agriculture poem

my life in the ghost of Bush

time-lapsed (part 1)

unreconciled

---

Images are taken without permission from the fine and trusting folks at Folk Arts of Poland; please purchase something from them. Background music stolen without permission from Epitonic, Basta Music, and just about everywhere else my unscrupulous hands could grab something. No rights reserved.

---