if i had a long enough line and a long enough string of courage to hang on, i could make my way to the lower roof from my window yonder.

well, i got the part of reading stage directions for the first staged reading. it's a gig. unpaid. but still a gig. which makes me happy.

and i nearly hit someone in the eye with a block of wood when i tried using a skill saw. with which, i guess, i have no skill.

and i keep smelling cigarette smoke, which always makes me think of italy. probably naples. and i am nearly always in the company of two smoking men, so i like the fact that i can go back to italy.

as i am writing this, ingrid and sara bareilles are serenading me with breathy voices, and they keep asking me "is love alive?"
which makes me think of your face.

and guess what? you aren't the one i'm talking about.
you are.

i'm not sure, but i feel a low humming in my bones, which lends to the belief that something is there, and waiting to sing.

singing that something is alive. that hope for me is yet alive. that cynicism and skepticism are about to go into hiberation, possibly, earlier than thought. that feelings, for me, can be born, when chestnuts are bombing the cobblestone malls and leaves are sailing, like dead procrastinators trying to hang on to a last bit of life, to the earth we tread. that what i thought i had lost is still there, glowing and pulsating and humming.

hummmmmmmmmmmmmmmmlikeaprayerthroughmyskeletonhummmmmmmmmmmm......

-d