life should maintain its texture. everything sucks when my entire day feels greased, from waking up and going to work to coming home and being too tired to do anything and talk to anyone. it's too easy to get stuck in a cloud of bubble-wrap and forget that you crave moss, gravel, fingernails and stubble.

i've been writing in this diary for a year and a day. happy birthday, diary.

you're dreaming of awaking in your other's body. you turn your lover's back from you and trace a flower on her breast. panic and dismemberment threaten your breathing. the moon is not your friend, tonight, so you hide behind your blinded eyes, your bleached eyes, her dream eyes. the logic written in the swollen braille of skin guides your thoughts down into the dark towards the river, from the speechlessness in your throat to the wheezing of your heart. you gather the water and the wood and the spices -- the sustenance of your resolutions -- from the stream you dug and the forest you planted years ago. you will wait there, warming your feet on the toasted rocks, sipping tea and stitching your fingernails back on. in a hundred hours your lover will look for you. the tea and forgiveness will still be warm by dawn.