received an unbeveled incense stick, moaned about dust spilt: "like blaming honda for driving the car off the dealership lot and into a brick wall"
inhaled, concentrated, ordered food, continued concentrating, finished concentrating, heard a knock at the door. perfect timing. it's bad for ya
read junichiro tanizaki's the key. a mid-fifties husband and mid-forties wife uncork their sexual repressions via journaling
i haven't the faintest desire to penetrate his psychology, beyond the limits i've set for myself
he kept after me to kiss his eyes
as soon as he was gone i took out my diary and examined it. the scotch tape didn't seem any different, nor, at first glance, did the cover. but when i looked through a magnifying glass i found two or three faint blemishes-the tape had been peeled off expertly-which couldn't be hidden. i'd made doubly sure by leaving a toothpick inside, counting the leaves to know where i'd inserted it. now it was in a different place
you'd expect a man's calligraphy to improve with age
read the rubaiyat of omar khayyam, a drunkard's plea, translated by edward fitzgerald and popularized in the united states not long before prohibition. a caravanserai of a/a/b/a poetry, a hair perhaps divides the false and true. tamam