I can't, I'm sorry.

I'll still be blogging, but not here. We'll be in touch.

Why memories exist.

He flicked the lighter until his thumb hurt. He helped me light the pipe I helped him buy last winter. With his hand he blocked the summer wind from the cherry I made that sunny afternoon. We sat on a power box and watched with our legs dangling as alien ships lifted from the windows of Extra Foods and burst through the ivory white clouds. One of them collided with an airplane. An explosion of red, white and yellow billowed with smoldering black cloud against the blue-clad sky. A piece of shrapnel plummeted downwards and scalded the wind-swept grass between us and Nordstrom crescent. We sat in stoned bewilderment as an alien writhed piteously, looked up to us, and died. We drank our water that was warmed by the sun. We discussed how happy we were to be there, twenty years old swinging our bare feet on a blistering day. Then we left, knowing we'd reflect on it and remember the alien, our bare feet, and how happy we were to be alive.

We, the weary.

This isn't my place anymore. It's despairingly true; I won't fight it any longer. That doesn't change how much I love you, or what you mean to me. I just don't belong. I hope we meet at the crossroads though. I will share laughter with you again.

She's got strings attached.

They didn't need the Scrabble board, though it was nice to sit in the shade and spell 'violet potato' while looking out at a residential street. She enjoyed the way his face changed when he smiled with his teeth but for some reason she couldn't look upon him long. She felt awkward and distrusting. But my, did she like to see him smile. He likes quantum physics and lived on a farm most of his life. She likes to paint pictures and is a city girl.

But when she left the building she worked in and broke outside, with the scent of the setting sun making her knees weak; instead of the boy with the smiling eyes she thought of homemade lasagna, and how much she loved to be someone else's 'family friend'.

He led a passionate life.

It's immortals like Eric Blair that stimulate a mixed sense of awe and fire in us. Simply reading about his life makes me want to stop what I know to be wrong about our current society, and vigorously encourage everything that is right. I want to paint a portrait of him that I can look into daily to remind myself of what I'm obligated to do: live as an active and positive member of a global society.

Sunday is the coolest name for a day of the week.

Let's travel to the moon sometime, just to view the stars from a different perspective.

I dig you as you are.

Citrus flesh (fresh?) on a cloudy day

My world is full of tired and rain.