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2012-02-26 - 10:27 p.m.

up the flowers, down the snow.

when the bad news came, i crushed my fingertips into the edge of the table. the laminate flexed under pressure, and nail polish cracked and fell away in little flakes. i looked at my hands, tried not to cry.

since then, that particular lilac colour speaks to melancholy. the quilt on my sofa, this swiss dot fabric, lacquer in a little jar.

* * *


my silent friend read from his notes with focus and great precision. at intervals, he would press his hand to his forehead, cheekbone, the bridge of his nose. he never raised his eyes.

there's nothing more thankless than working hard to become barely adequate at something most people can do without effort.

* * *


reading: anna karenina.
listening to: hidden lakes, shearwater.
working on: writing.
in the garden: these little blue irises are flickering up like gas flames.


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