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2010-11-25 - 12:39 p.m.

the sun amidst small stars

my dad browns the seeds and strings of a winter squash in a heavy pan, then pours in a great hissing gush of water. the flesh steams over this broth, a kitchen full of autumn.

i sit on the counter, kicking my heels against the cabinets and eating little tangerines.

* * *

when titian grew old and his vision faded, he smeared paint onto canvas with his fingers, a subtlety of polychromatic modulation without precedent in western art.

but i am not old. i am not yet thirty, and i never asked to be freed from any of these symmetries.

* * *

reading 24h dans la vie d'une femme, zweig. my french is so rusty, it creaks and groans.
listening to: Ólafur Arnalds - 3055.
working on: winding balls of yarn.
in the garden: snow is falling on my mom's perennial bed.

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