The date looks nice today. I keep misspelling my own name, what is that indicative of? I have a new keyboard and it requires a heavier, clackier typing style, but still. I hardly ever put enough force into the S and it�s really slowing me down, lowing me down. It makes me think about what signing your name to things means, whether it�s like saying, �Listen, just think about who wrote these words, go a little easy on me.� I don�t know.

I really like this man, this young old man. I don�t even know how old he is. I think he�s my age. I�ve known him for years and years and years, but barely. I don�t pay that much attention to that many people. I�ve been trying to remember that I don�t really know who he is. I�m trying to find out who he is. I tell him rambling stories about things that I love and I wait to see what he says. So far, so good. I am a reading comprehension test, he has good reading comprehension skills. We speak the same stupid dream language. We drift off a lot. We have opposite schedules, we live too far apart. He wants to live closer, I want a roommate, but I�m not that stupidly dreamy, yet.

I want to have a roommate because I want to save more money, but I don�t want someone telling me to quit listening to Overnight Music in the kitchen window at three in the morning, I don�t want to find someone else�s hair in the bathroom sink. I don�t want to compromise about furniture arrangement. I met a girl on Saturday night, she needs a roommate. She seemed alright except that when I shook her hand it seemed to have no bones in it. How can that be? I wanted to tell someone, but no one understands these things. Bees was at home, hungover. It sort of ruined my night, the boneless hand, and other things. I drank one beer, I pouted around, I kept going outside to look at my telephone. Kickstand found me and asked, �Why are you standing out here, looking so sad?� I didn�t know. I don�t know.

It�s been a long week, my knuckles are scraped for real, my hair is unruly, getting out of bed is too hard in the morning. The weather is saving my life, it is the climate of my dreams. Each season lasts about three days. This week was a week without coats, next week it will snow. On the inside of my chest, or maybe in my stomach, it feels like Spring. All this time, and I still can�t remember what I wanted to say.