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2002-12-01 | 1:19 a.m.
_

cellar door

1:19 am crept up on me like the melody of a forgotten song that you absent mindedly hum. I read 200 pages of a book. It's done and I don't want to sleep. I once read, "When we fully realize that life is here, right now, we don't fall asleep and we don't get bored." I feel that I am, right now, tired and hungry, coming to terms with what chord that has struck inside of me. The only picture that is peeling off the front of my journal is the one of kitty. She's been gone for 10 days now, and I know in my heart that she is no longer with us. Dolly Parton is silently mouthing a song on the TV in a skin-tight teal leather jumper studded with rhinestones on the shoulder and the wide belt swung around her hips.

Irony is a bitch.

The ache in the middle of my upper back has moved in for the winter. And I feel like I've been in hibernation for 5 years and I woke up in an unfamiliar place.

I love how the heat clicks on a regular intervals, whirring up from the vents in the floor. Some big, rusty animal that wakes in the cellar below me. "Don't forget that I am alone down here so you don't have to be," it says.


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