"I'm not supposed to listen to liars. If you lie to me, I can't love you." Flight Patterns.


9/10/10

I live in a magical house in the clouds number 9, way up far past blue skies, right off the freeway 580. It's mostly yellow in color, shy a block from the paintings of giraffes on the walls. We share the room with the windows right next to the freeway exit ramp. An ocean of tires, day and night. Cars that feed the waves that crash on the shore outside my window. If you close your eyez and forget where you are, you can hear the ocean. I lay underneath her black sheets with my eyez closed and forget where I am. I disappear into everything, go everywhere and stay in place. The pieces of me go everywhere--becoming a part of who I am. And I float here

and sing a little tune/hum a little song to my lover.