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2012-09-13 - 6:59 p.m.


he was wearing a fedora with a stingy brim and a poorly fitted waistcoat. a too-delicate watch chain wobbled oddly as he shifted on his feet. it looked like he was waiting for an excuse to show that he could juggle, or perhaps he had confused these things with having a personality. he joined a large group of christians at the next table over, and they narrowly beat us at pub trivia over the course of the evening.

he was wearing a t-shirt printed with courbet's l'origine du monde, and only one shoe. a cigarette had burned down between his inert fingers. i stepped over him and walked up the stairs to the landing, where there was a cat named barricade and a small envelope of someone's unlabeled pills.

he had a large tub of russian bear 5000 weight gain supplement, a book on how to become a mma fighter, and a sad-looking plant lodged in a pot shaped like tweety bird's head.

* * *

reading: nightmare alley, by w.l. gresham.
listening to: david byrne & st. vincent - who.
working on: making dinner.
in the garden: the oxblood lilies have come in bloom.

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