“Pretty”, and no more than that has never been enough. A sense of imminent consequence is the only thing that pushes me to move.

- Yet, perhaps that is not exactly the best way to phrase my dilemma. The question I ask myself is more so, “In what way do I most prefer to watch these flowers fade? Desiccating outside? Or shriveling up before my eyes on the dining room table inside?”

…when you cut open any of these roots, regardless of thickness, they reveal a bright screaming yellow flesh…

I’m about to ruin my front yard…

The petting of a cat is an end in itself,

The petting of a cat gives no more than just that.

The petting of a cat, whether skinny or fat,

Is the time for the self to escape from itself.

All I can think of these days is bead-board. - wainscoting, chair rails, pastel paint colors, English cottages…

I was utterly mesmerized by every single thing: the shiny clothes, the crotch grabbing, the “Hee Hee!”s, “Woo!”s and “Ow!”s.  But best of all was the sound.  I had no idea what I was listening to, or why I loved it so.

I’d like to say my childhood was filled with bouncing around the playground with other equally bouncy children, and though it wasn’t without its fair share of it, my two strongest memories of childhood are of being sick, and the visceral sensation of trying to breathe while crying.