My eyes hurt. Sometimes when I look left I can feel the muscles pull taut. Sometimes when I walk through aisles, a thing I rarely do these days, I cannot discern label from label without leaning in slightly. This says something about my eyes, but it certainly says something about consumption. But then that's TB... or was it Cancer? TB... it had to be... (It had to be you... oh virulent flu... My lungs full of goo... it had to be you!)

So Janúar approaches. I've made big plans... grand plans... devised cities made of dreams and brittle brittle bone... I cannot wait to see how quickly they crumble like the seashells when we poured hydrochloric acid upon them in 8th grade and Andy spilled it all over my shorts. Nothing is quite as embarassing to a 12-year-old as stripping down to your nothings in front of the supremely elderly school nurse with the cold hands. Hrm... except maybe stripping down in front the particularly young, attractive nurse with the soft skin and glistening smile. I'd like to think I'd have handled that latter situation better, but in reality, probably not. I'd have been all... "What... it's cold in here!" regardless. Er... what was I talking about? Oh yes... plans.

I am not, by nature, a plan maker. (I am hot, near craters, waiting for picture takers.) It is not something I do particularly well, other than to create a concept and be bemused as it becomes wet and flimsy until it eventually makes a better window than a door, because by then my drive/interest/attention span has already waned.

Lo, but I am tired... lo, but I am tired. Some days I think I keep waking up because it's really the best joke... that 5:30 spin makes me laugh more than anything.. that mirrorcoil unfurling like the flaccid flipflop of soaked sandals on some mushy forsaken beach.

"Those who can talk..." indeed... indeed.

Lost myself again.. sorry.. happens. I am not linearly drawn today. I dangle about strung up like lost sacks, my strings visible but meaningless as they hang hooked from the bow of some dirty cabinet. Maybe I have a jaunty mustache... this is dreamworld after all... it isn't? Shit.

Practicing avoision, if you will, (and you will), has become something of an addiction... the headphones.. the daydreams... the dutiful imbibing... my oh my it skewers visions until the you that you knew knew you knows just who through they threw you? Y'dig?

I kid I kid... it's all fine.. this is a big red punching glove filled with sand in a jack-in-the-box! That's all... pay no attention to the flan behind the curtain... it's all just a bucket of custard anyhow! Here's pie in your eye!

Ha! See? Keep laughing long enough and you begin to believe it.. almost... almost

almost.

The year is dead, long live the year.

-Q