recently, lying in bed, it occurred to me.
i am very very young. i have lots of long life ahead of me. that is comforting.
aside from this i also touch my fin, sewn together too tightly by a nervous doctor, and i remember sitting up in bed, arm nearly falling asleep for i was thorough pulling spindly clump after spindly bloody clump of hair. three or four strands of light brown held together by this deep beautiful crusty red. over weeks they collected on the floor by my bed and i would comb my hair and the comb would be full of them. and greasy neosporin.
i've been thinking about it occasionally often lately.
this town keeps growing on me.
i seem unable to stand the winter at about the time it is made more bearable by a cup of tea or a favorite scarf or a memory.
or a bit of growing up.
(i just witnessed two pigeons fucking outside the library window. glorious. shaken. like little old biddies.)
