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9.02.2005

 
*transcribed from my paper journal*

There aren't any sirens in a place like this. At 3am all I can hear for miles are crickets and the occasional soft laugh from an open window as I walk down the street. The pavement is still warm under my feet and smells of tar. The world is wet with the afterbirth of night, and it coats my skin. In this world I am a cat as I slip down the road past all the sleeping families. I can taste their dreams they're so close. But this cat just keeps walking. My skin burns from earlier when I washed the car with no shirt on, and my knees ache from riding bikes through the dusk traffic like minnow in a school of sharks. My whole body is a tired smile. The salty sheen of sweat reflects the street lamps and I look like I'm glowing in the windows of houses as I pass. My image stares out from the eyes of every house, a glowing savior of night. I feel like I could hold my arms out and my fingers would snake vine-like into the earth and breathe in the whole planet. I could taste the breeze on the part of the world where life began. I can taste it. I can taste it in the perfection of my existence, in the perfection of the sleeping families. I turn and walk back home quietly with my hands folded behind my back. She's still sleeping soundly in bed as I climb in and wrap my arms around. I can't help but be part of the beauty. My last breath is like a prayer of thanksgiving. A deep sigh before I sleep and the whole world with me.

Written on her hand, because I wrote it there earlier is: If you were made of leaves I would pile you up and jump in. Goddamn, it can be beautiful.

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