Wut.

My hair is fixed! I went to the beauty school on El Camino, where they cut for super cheap and shampoo your head for dozens of minutes. Funny how beauty school cost me seven dollars to fix what Supercuts cost me twenty to ruin. My hairdresser was a gal named Gloria who sounded like she was practicing conversational English phrases she learned from a tape and she made my head look

SO















MUCH














BETTER















Despite being a tad Bieber-esque, I'm happy with it.

And fear not, loyal reader! The lesbian-permahelmet of yore lives on in photographs!















and














and, because sometimes I'm ridiculous...





























Yup.

Outcast eyes in an angular face reflect the drizzly drops collectively illumined by street lamp light. The clouds, bodiless and careless open their mouths like a choir. Relief rains onto perpetually parched soil, splashes with a laugh, gives what is needed without a thought. Earthly thank yous search for ears.

What powers wield the clouds, and with what nonchalance. Outcast eyes narrow. Like roots and other gnarled, needy things, bones and flesh extend in long-squelched longing toward the uncaring, the untouchable, the amorphous, but never escape their stagnant station amongst the muck.

Ugly eyes avert, inescapably bound and bodily. Desires flare and run amock. Confidence crumbles.

There's something about this sweatshirt - the thinness of the fabric or the cut of the sleeves - that is distinctly feminine and oh god, it's intoxicating. A soft and slender arm to drape across one's shoulders at will.

It hearkens back to evenings, nights, wee morning hours a few Octobers ago. Entangled, enfolded, adrift. Chaste, yet breathtakingly electric. A scent so sweet as to pang, dark and almost painful betwixt trembling ribs.

Could you fold me up with your other clothes to swim, awash in your scent and buoyed by the feel of your fabrics? For all my flighty irreverence, I'd be your most willing prisoner.

Daydreams swirl, amorphous specters around my head. Oh, that I could grab them with my hands and spin them into something solid to gift you. A string of silk spinning forth from pursed lips.

Here are the threads. Spin away.