I live like I'm taking a walk. Admiring the scenery, the traffic. Feeling the chill, the warm hand I'm holding. Sometimes, I watch my shoes. Or the stars. But yeah, no running for this guy.
But August. August was a month of running. And it felt like I was wearing the wrong type of shoes the entire time.
and everything after
I was writing this post on the gig and Rockestra when an Internet error occured and that was it. I'm too tired and pissed to rewrite everything.
I've been sick for a week, coughing dry heaving coughs both from a half-baked cold and cigarette smoking sh-sh-shaking withdrawals.
Mostly in bed, curling up to a Le Guin book wishing I could armchair travel (but obviously not living in an airport though I kinda want to sometimes because airports are a sort of well-lit purgatory where we could all just wander around and window shop forever if no connecting flights connect), just finished the Second Summer of the Sisterhood (cold medicine makes me weepy), the Magic Numbers singing "I would die for you" in the background, and sometimes it would rain softly outside.
Now in the office. A little miserable, a little detached. But happy in a not-smiling way. Happy in a glum way because August went by so fast and so many things made me happy (gig and Rockestra and super friends) and made me think (moral arguments, ack!) and made me quietly grieve (listening to Diner). And I feel like I'm supposed to process all these sights and smells and sighs all around me but I don't know how.