Oct. 25, 2003 @ 8:21 p.m.

My insides are spilling over the edges like boiling water in a small frying pan. Spilling over onto the surface, dirtying and reshaping the microscopic curves of the faded avocado porcelain of my 1930s apartment’s kitchen adornment. You look so beautiful, I wonder what you dream? I wonder how you learned to make the scene like a Hollywood movie on a $10 budget. But then I always seem to wonder how there’s this and how did it grow to be larger in stature and shape than the other little random remnants that mean anything only to me? You and I are both better than this. It’s possible that I am the only one who realizes that.