There's too much to write, it only makes sense not to right now.
...although sometimes when you're in the shower, and perhaps you haven't taken one every single day, perhaps there have been days between these events of the shower, maybe you bathe in the tub occasionally...soaking... But it's different soaking than it is standing in the shower where your mind isn't muted and treated to silence and echoing splishysplashes. In both, it's hot, of course, but in the shower, instead of muted, your thoughts are stimulated, like driving rain, and, maybe it's like the sound of BBs being released onto a street, a street with a steep grade, picture a superslanted street, in san francisco. You can't see where the top leads, over the curve— and someone's released BBs, from the top down, and they're rolling closer towards you —unless, no, they're getting away from you. You're the one who's let them all go, these BBs that are like your thoughs but started out as the rain in the shower, bouncing from the top downhill ... and they richochet as they gain speed, smaller, then more erratic in bounce and height. So your thoughts are, and you're trying to catch all of them. They're a lot like these BBs, propelled by gravity ... it's that sound and momentum and revving of water, in the shower, which makes you chase your one hundred thoughts, rather than capture any single one, more often than not, on a day like today. You're standing, and you're composing those conversations to people you've meant to start, or will start soon, in some cases just after you dry off; in other cases far in the future, tilting a stem of a wine glass around with your writs's rotation. Standing here in the shower you start silent sentences... some for yourself, some for later in real life, and I hope that at some point, I'll get to the bottom of the steep grade, and I can just wait with wide open-openness as all my thoughts gather at my feet, and with them I will be able to compose some real, written sentences.



Until then, I'll post these pictures. From this morning. Because sometimes it's your last day in NY, and Brooklyn. And your friends are there to record it... this time it's Sxx who's off to Prague. She'll be back though, oh yes. We have faith, and are holding hostage some of her things.

I've been thinking about you. I have. I think about you when i'm out... looking at the sky for a minute. I think of you in between brushing my teeth and sandwiching in between the blankets of my bed. My bed which sits on the floor now. It is low. By the window. I think of you if i can't fall asleep, and i know i should sit down, and ... And i want to ... I want to show you my photos. Of monkeys. tell you about that moon in Costa Rica. those nights it was full and so bright. we were swimming in the warm ocean, riding to shore on the waves. Or, back here in this gray concrete place, i walk past the Lion Hut, some joint on Bedford. I want to take a picture of their sign "The Customer is King". Show it to you. That lion logo they have, its so creepy. Or tell you about my move... and how, now that I'm one block South from before, my patterns are changing. I am drawn to the southside, for coffee and tacos. I hated the name of that one coffee spot "Supercore" but I can't fight it. They're cute in there. I go, sit, read Wallpaper. I'm back to milk in my coffee. That started in Costa Rica, where they heat the milk for you so you don't cool down your coffee. They really do that everywhere but here, don't they? (They do that at Supercore.) What i really should spend our time together on is describing the vehicle which pulled up in front of my building on Sunday, driven by the characters I hired to help me with my move. They were late because they had "run out of gas in the truck". His flyer, and his business card, read "responsible, courteous, good rates — NY TRUCKING". Funny how that wasn't a truck at all they were driving. Funny how that was a van. A conversion van so covered in grafitti, but then patched over in paint to try to cover up the grafitti, that it was even too crappy to belong to a metal band. Bumper tied on with wire. Real license plate though. Bright green fluid running all under the passenger seat. The 2 movers carried the boxes up and down all the stairs though. And they were cheap. And the classical music they played in their van calmed them down from the buzzing of the crystal meth —That was their joke.

And now I sit here surrounded by these boxes. Half of them partially opened up in search of a few select items. And i'm finally typing to you a few of the things i've been saving up to tell you.

We're not really up to speed, yet, though, website. I forgot to tell you about seeing Lambchop at Knitting factory. They were so good and that's all i'm listening to now. And about how now that i'm not, say, 23 anymore, I cant decide if my feet get more tired from standing up at shows, or if my ass gets more tired when I sit down at shows. Did i tell you that i live across from a night club now? when the doors open and people go in and out, i hear the music pour out, onto the street. Into my windows. I think i'll start staying up late at night, dancing around my living room in 4 second bursts at a time, when the music pumps. Or maybe i'll hang out there instead, in my pajamas. Maybe i'm just going to get some earplugs.

Did you know that sloths look like Chewbacca, in their way? and Howler monkeys sound like big gorillas and also pigs, when you hear them at 5 in the morning, in the jungle? And aged rum from Nicaragua is the best, really.

i'm off to Supercore now. starting to like how that sounds...

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