grass-rash and sun-stains

I keep forgetting that this is the place to write tra-la stuff, and the dark and distressing stuff should be written elsewhere, on paper, in my increasingly flawed script.

so tra-la it is. life is great. um... isn't the weather beautiful?

-the bus stop on 41st and 15th, via Gould Hall.
-from the roof of my building.
-turning 180 degrees from the prior view.
-Fremont, where Deluxe Junk used to be. my first thought upon seeing this was "I want that to be my room." I am startled by such thoughts- so childlike, completely erroneous to every grim reality I've learned in the past 25 years. why CAN'T I live in that little space, with the colored linoleum and the little door, and hang curtains that I could close for privacy if needed? why couldn't I?
I thought about that and how benign, inane shit like that is stuff people Just Don't Do, and I felt kinda sad. my young self and my adult self would both shrilly agree that it makes no fucking sense.
-the ladies

sometimes I feel like I can sense the visible wake left behind me; my trajectory is brutal and destructive and rustles leaves. and then there's days like today, when I'm a finger dragged through gelatin that isn't yet set, and I leave no imprint at all.