promises like pie-crust

this skylight and built-in-bookshelves are the best parts of my new room

music: the song that we sing, charlotte gainsbourg

i'm itching for pastels and vast sheets of empty paper but the lights are off, doors already locked at all the art stores. streetlamps filter the city in dark yellow and i click-catch photographs when i walk by. the waterfront feels lonely on the surface but has twilight secrets underneath. in marker on the wavesculpture roof,"my shirt is very very blue." and look how tiny mussels watermark the piled-up squares of a wooden dock. they are soft against my hands and their empty shells whisper in cold winds.

if you slow the noise of summer crickets, it will turn to song.