Dreams are what you wake up from.

Choo Choo...
Gym: Shoulders and Back.

Met up with a friend last evening. It was one of those friends that you've always known and seen and never really got to know. An impromptu icq chat eventually led to duck rice at thirteen turns, and thereafter, cheesecake cafe. We talked about veracity; we talked about life love hurt scars cold cloudy-water expectations the-sound and more...

"i have to go to the toilet"
"i don't wanna hurt again"
"listen to that voice inside you"
"you've gone throught a lot in life to be like this"
"you are too rational"
"take a stand"
"you didn't ask me"
"i don't want to open the door"
"i cannot forget how she looked when she left"
"you have to untie that boulder"
and what the mind lays, the heart decides.
Ultimately.

Rediscovered Hemmingway and thus,
back to Carver.

Raymond Carver - Your Dog Dies
it gets run over by a van.
you find it at the side of the road
and bury it.
you feel bad about it.
you feel bad personally,
but you feel bad for your daughter
because it was her pet,
and she loved it so.
she used to croon to it
and let it sleep in her bed.
you write a poem about it.
you call it a poem for your daughter,
about the dog getting run over by a van
and how you looked after it,
took it out into the woods
and buried it deep, deep,
and that poem turns out so good
you're almost glad the little dog
was run over, or else you'd never
have written that good poem.
then you sit down to write
a poem about writing a poem
about the death of that dog,
but while you're writing you
hear a woman scream
your name, your first name,
both syllables,
and your heart stops.
after a minute, you continue writing.
she screams again.
you wonder how long this can go on.