have i realized this before? --that i make our bed in the way she taught me? what does that say about me? i could dismiss it as reasonable, though admittedly rare. oh, fuck: i just got her haircut too. she is on my mind--why is she not like the others that i have whisked from memory into godhood? why does she return to me, as a person to emulate and not a figure who poignantly evokes a time or ideal?
i prefer imagined to real.
i also hate my haircut. i look like that creepy doll some aunt gave me, enveloped by her excessive clothing, features blank. i hardly recognize myself.
i am procrastinating. normal. i am anxious. normal. i am afraid. unusual.
maybe it just comes down to this: i am over-caffeinated.