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This is what it could look like when one completely deconstructs a life as one knows it, and how to build from the ground up. Alternatively, this is a fresh look at an old story. The fine art of falling apart.


I'm Gish. I guess this is what one can call the remnants of a pre-mid-life crisis. I listen to too much music and read too many books, and it all means nothing. Abrasive, I smoke too much, drink too much coffee and hardly sleep. Alive. Be sure to check out the new links to blogs, photos, music and other sorts of good stuff at the very bottom of the page.


play some tricks on me

Most of the time...I can keep both feet on the ground
My subconscious has an awful sense of humour. The irony is always lost on me until the next morning, when I open my eyes and wish I hadn't. Because I want to stay in the room. In the dream. and I don't even notice that she's gone...

But, I always resurface. Breaking the calm with my awareness. Like a toothache.
I still haven't forgotten your face.

I want you to be reliable, like a Volvo, or a red apple in the Fall.
It's chilly, and I want to curl up and read Kafka under a warm blanket. A fire crackling, or maybe the absent ticking of the baseboard heater, my eyes following vowels. But maybe I'll sleep better tonight, in my own bed. Red, red sheets.

There's no way to get it across that I have a hard time letting things go, especially the ones that touch me. The things that reach me. It's hard to forget. Lines in the water ripple away, the sun goes down, the moon comes up. Sky turns dark. And I can't forget. I blame my subconcious. It does have that nasty sense of humour, and it likes to kick me when I'm down.

ok, ok. I give.

Buckley sleeping on the bed, Marble talking in his sleep. Night.

Most of the Time - Bob Dylan

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