-standing on Judith's rooftop (lake, space needle, city visible) while she smoked and sang to the water. Rex i think smoked a bit too, i can't remember
-older middle-aged man humming Linger (cranberries) to himself, whistling it later
-it's friday night, of course the city's alive. why am i surprised? students buzzing at lightrail, on buses, loudly talking and laughing and otherwise exclaiming. they're here and happy and alive

I wish my website were more anonymous

Yesterday evening the sky didn't get black till past 10pm. The video store was sold to ace hardware, it seems. There were views of a mountain range to the west- the cascades- in between streets. I want to identify the peaks. At one point i saw a square brick box of an apartment building with two old cars in its dipped parking lot, capable of holding six cars if people were cozy to getting locked in. The room above these cars was the only one with a lit window, no visible blinds or curtains. Inside was bland, with no decor on the walls but maybe a vase or bottle on top of some sort of dresser. I struggled to get a picture of the scene with how dark it was getting, but didn't want to turn on flash for the people somewhere inside that apartment to jump at. It wasn't long before i saw movement in the window- the first of any kind, as i hadn't even seen the usual flickering of an out-of-frame tv. A shirtless man, wearing pants and maybe a necklace, hair short, presumably in his 30s, leaner than fat, came up to lower semi-translucent sheet blinds. At the time i'd been significantly more focused on the cars than the window, though with how i'm retelling this it's not unfair you wouldn't believe me. At that moment, though, some horrible old longing came over me. I don't know if he really noticed me, but if he did his face was too far for me to really see. I imagined a grimace. I felt off, i felt like a sensitive teenager again getting lost in the idea of being a real boy. I wanted to be him, imagined when i'd be freely shirtless and older and stronger; i imagined this all as i passed by a pub and in seeing people at the bar laughing, seeing a young woman anxiously standing with a pool stick, i imagined joining them. It'll be soon. The man, though, what was really horrible about it is that i wanted him. There was some shame in sudden desire for something untainable to me, like cruising, something so morbidly cisgendered and violent to something-one like me. I can't do it as a trans man, let alone a dysphoric one with a broken cunt.

Boss closing, giving me advice on our job. Put his house key in the store's lock.

It's not true that i'm amazed by the sentient thing outside and to the left of mom's white porch of overgrown ivy and baby lilies Grandad can take care of those but i don't think she can. Grandad couldn't take care of his daughter, but she took care of hers. I don't assume this was a fair trade .

Roasting hymn on low with North American napalm

"If I have died and don't know it of whom do I ask the time? What does old ash say when it passes near the fire? Does smoke talk with the clouds? Is it true our desires must be watered with dew? But is it true that the vests are preparing to revolt? What does a fly do, imprisoned in one of Petrarch's sonnets? How long do others speak if we have already spoken? Why does the earth grieve when the violets appear? And to position sad Nixon with his buttocks over the brazier? Roasting him on low with North American napalm? It is bad to live without a hell: aren't we able to reconstruct it? Am I allowed to ask my book whether it's true I wrote it? Do all memories of the poor huddle together in the villages? And do the rich keep their dreams in a box carved from minerals? Whom can I ask what I came to make happen in this world? Why do I move without wanting to, why am I not able to sit still? Was it where they lost me that I finally found myself? Will our life not be a tunnel between two vague clarities? In the end, won't death be an endless kitchen? Will your destruction merge with another voice and other light? What will your disintegrated bones do, search once more for your form?"

tragedy of losing someone you loved to the person they are now. i can't be like this

and other scenes are not taking

i want

this is all there ever was

To me art is a reaction to human life, while philosophy is a number of observances of it.

Hume's distress in reflecting on his skeptical findings: "The wretched condition, weakness, and disorder of faculties, I must employ in my enquiries, encrease my apprehensions. And the impossibility of amending or correcting these faculties, reduces me almost to despair." Ruth wrote "At the end of this (somewhat tortuous) diagnosis, I (disappointingly) conclude that the elimination of induction in favor of IBE hasn't improved our epistemological situation and may well have worsened it."

White oak dwarves man, as do the broadleaves of Chile