heavenlystranger

Most of Jonahs life is spent doing thing like this. He is resigned. He starts to type, stops, pulls a cigarette out of his pocket, places it in his lip, starts again. The cigarette dangles, unlit. He only puts a cigarette in his mouth when he is almost done writing. Soon he will turn the typewriter off and walk out onto the balcony to smoke it, but not yet. Now he is rapt, his fingers dancing over the keys. Its raining outside and Jonah types. Nothing can be seen but the room and its occupant, but one presumes that there are many ghosts there. Jonah types and the sound ascribes meaning to the things that Jonah has surrounded himself with; a pile of socks, an empty soup can in the sink. The sliding glass door is open a crack and the city wind moves the corners of the papers on the floor. Perhaps the sound of the keys clicking remind Jonah of something. Footsteps maybe, or the charms on a bracelet swinging together. Certainly this is suggested by his face and its intensity.


and so forth. i am doing some extensive rewriting and so it goes.
i want to make a garden somewhere in a secret place in my city. i am going to buy a bucket of wildflower seeds and borrow a shovel and a hoe and find a hidden patch of land here. i am going to clear out the litter and take care of my little garden. me and dancingyosarian and my friend patric. next spring, there will be flowers all over this shit town.

everyone say hi to the fine piece of work that is carcrashset. he is the third member of the informal sgstockton. make him feel welcome.
with love and vegan brownies
the heavenlystranger
ps: also send a shot out to dancingyosarian. he is also cool