rough: May. 29, 2002 (7:57 pm)

roughly what i am working on...it feels, empty right now though. Things are missing, i'm too stressed now to fix them. just need to transfer notebook to here to make preliminary changes...enough excuses...

.light.

Records, hearts, windows,images. In attempt to be a man--to be the best(by gathering the most As), to be sought after(by dropping emotional girls), to be strong (by lauching balls in the air), to be perfect (by cutting their hair just right)they seem to break everything. Without fail boys ruin everything.

Here I am on the T, out of the tunnel. There aren't eough seats + he's standing in front of me. His hand on his waist pushing back the dark tan courdoroy blazer. With worn elbow patches and missing buttons. Looking out through thinnly rimmed glasses, he looks like a proffesor.P>

We are heading back to Newbury, where the musicisians sneer at us from breaking chairs. Where they are searching for satisfaction; not poor searching for money. Yet a missed chord, hacking on cigarettes or hair too newly cut ruins it all for me. I realize they are not holy, only starving artists who hit wrong notes and cough and who are just men like the rest.

But, he lends me books and his hair never, ever changes length.

Yet, he is still just a man, who never, ever thinks of me.

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