before :: after

home

dropped temperatures. flat packages from amazon.com, used books that cost more to ship than to purchase, i find myself with

not one but two copies of "a portrait of the artist as a young man."

no one is in new jersey.
my world is in massachusetts, i come back here to no one, i leave everything behind, i have nothing left

but picking up pieces i failed to assemble properly on the first attempt.

nineteenth-century british literature kicked my ass.

i don't know if i'm dumber or smarter than i imagine. the people that have faith in me are fools.

so much for great expectations.

so many things fall at my feet around me, fall like that one sparste sporadic snow. it lasted for fifteen minutes or so, but i sat inside at a desk and this godforsaken computer screen instead of running out to get caught in it.

i never thought i'd kiss and tell.

the worst
the quietest softest tragedy is to have people say that you've got tons of potential.

that means you're not doing enough.
that means you're only half alive.