  sorry to inflict this upon any poor lonely traveller who encounters my blog, but I like it! I wrote it the other night, sitting outside, listening to devendra banhart All the little points that cut and glisten off of the underneath of leaves, glowing, placed so carefully, held so tentatively, they could never fall. Of course they could, of course they could trip, drip, adding to the murmurs in the cold air. Cold air that makes your skin feel wet, and clean, and alive, the kind of feeling only cliches can properly express.
I can still taste the smoke and the coffee, sitting half out of the back door like this. And the music too, delicate so not to disturb anything, not smothering, just laying itself over everything. Like the drops of water it is attached, held by its own aesthetic neccesity. It feels all so tightly strung, but with the smallest strongest threads, the spider hiding always just out of sight watching, its web so alluring. Even the trains and the traffic just rumble everything into life, they can do nothing to crumble and dissolve what there is here. and something else I just found in my notebook. Sharp green giggles Keen for colour Peek in a little dying snow And watching all this new warm with chill and shiver Held tight in rich warm wool Held tight with kissing early morning light Well the stupid machine won't let me publish this crap so I'll write a little more.
I just had a really nice supper, bruschetta (sort of) with salad and parmesan all over it, it was delicious and now the garlic that lingers in my mouth makes me want more! 
