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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.


I sometimes dream that...

I lost my binoculars. The ones I found you with. I remember the day they first caught you in their line of sight. Fog rolled in off the water like unfurling yards of smoky, grey fabric. The sand, damp from the heavy air. Grainy bits of the beach stuck to my knees as I tried for photos of the silky waves that licked the shoreline. Droplets of moisture dripped from the ends of my hair, I brushed them away from my eyes but they ran down my skin, heedless of my fingers. Then, there in my viewfinder, you came into focus.

You were walking, your footsteps seamless with the shore and the water. Black, curly hair teased by the wind, your hands jammed deep into your pockets, I liked the way your skin looked in the damp air. I just watched as you walked along, until your figure was blurred by the edges of the fog.

A slight whoosh and I could feel the rocks and the sand beneath me again, the damp in the air on my skin. Water in my pores. I gathered my things, and left the beach that day. But I came back the same time, the next morning, hoping the magic of the fog would let me see your blurred edges again, with my binoculars.

Like a truck on fire, the world is white and so hot, wrapped around my eyes.

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