11:57 a.m. - 2005-08-31
And so the year moves on in yesterdays many
After the king's speech, I doffed my fur and embraced the chill of the hallway, thinking about the round red bird shaped like an apple that fell from the sky. I saw the bird yesterday, and mourned its falling, for it was round, the epitome of perfection. Tomorrow, I will sing in this cage, and my heart will fall out of my mouth. Who will be there to catch it? For tomorrow is the next day's yesterday, and is already in the past. I am the past tense of the unborn future, and these words are pouring through my brain like a drug addict's pet poison, senseless, cyclic.

The girl is small, and has long blonde hair. I'll bet she smokes.

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