finally! it's spring. tigger, Emily, Rousseau, renaissance, folk, paper feathers, awakening lessons, bees -
this will all soon lead into buttercups, Wood, sweaty cheeks, dry fireflies in glass jars, tiny rocks, wild berries, everything aflame.
sleep. no sleep. sleep. no sleep.
for the last four nights and counting - that's from monday, lundi, to now, today, thursday, jeudi - i have missed 11.11 by two minutes, deux minuits. that's 11.13 i've checked the clock. what does this mean? 11.13? i'll write a little about it, maybe. i don't see a place fit to write about this, that is. typewriter - can't. it wouldn't be the same anyway,
unless i was Robbie at his typewriter in the country, struggling and smoking hand rolled cigarettes and laughing.
microsoft word is self - explanitorily a no. think like a horse. cheval.
writing by hand.
i would only agree to this if i had old paper and an old pen. all i have is ballpoint and notebooks.
empty notebooks.