mr. zimmerman's 115th dream

Ah me I busted out
Don't even ask me how
- mr. zimmerman*

feeling ridiculously hopelessly romantic and also at the very same moment, impossibly, absolutely crying.

let me sing you a waltz...out of nowhere, out of my blues...

baby, you are gonna miss that plane
i know.


sidewalks. cafe lights, tea stains on pages. mascara shadowed eyes in the morning with ruffled hair and thinking of the truth. movie addictions. bananas foster. bursting into tears and then babbling incoherently while pacing. humming and dancing in apartments with wood floors and big windows and record players. [lists]. dr. pepper and diet coke (not together). traffic lights hanging from lampposts over bridges made of steel and suspended like unravelling film.

again with this bullshit? no. i won't take it. are you bored? i am not intermediate entertainment. there was a time when that would have left me begging for more...and i'm not far enough removed to forget how it (still) sometimes makes my head spin...but not now. it's hard to see passed all the promise (because it's there...humming in the background like some twisted soundtrack made of silk and steel wool and rusted barbed wire) but i know what's behind it...and as much as i'd love to ignore it and pretend like ignorance really is bliss, i won't. those 3 seconds, so many months and days and hours ago, ingrained themselves on the insides of my eyelids in inverted colors like radioactive heart beats, and i am not stupid enough to open my eyes and forget. i'm jaded, you're careless, and we're both walking parallel to nothing that will ever be.


"All a writer has to do to get a woman is to say he's a writer. It's an aphrodisiac." saul bellow (awfully cavalier of him to say...but oh so true.)


*bob dylan, of course.