mood: leaves leaving trees
things are inevitable, shapeless; things are waiting.this november is julie doiron, stale croissants, the wind. in my dream you write me stories & pin them to these walls - as if understanding where you've been, i will also understand. we went to a hallowe'en party on wednesday night (i was silent & dressed as louise brooks & certainly at the wrong sort of party). so i left, i ran away for a walk with the mad hatter & when i returned, we had all become people i did not recognize. how did we get here? (did we get here?) your drunken hands hold these hands for moments far too long; until i turn away.
the flatmates and i have been spending afternoons keeping our hands warm with tea, reading about gainsbourg's ghost-house, wearing sweaters, eating cookies. the public gardens will close next week - the ducks have gone quiet, the flowerbeds are covered by the evergreen smell of christmas. and we are happy for this coldness; we laugh into each other's bundled forms. at night, the sky is rich with woodsmoke & sends our frosty voices curling upward.
the flatmates and i have been spending afternoons keeping our hands warm with tea, reading about gainsbourg's ghost-house, wearing sweaters, eating cookies. the public gardens will close next week - the ducks have gone quiet, the flowerbeds are covered by the evergreen smell of christmas. and we are happy for this coldness; we laugh into each other's bundled forms. at night, the sky is rich with woodsmoke & sends our frosty voices curling upward.
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