novembre ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- a night spent on someone else's living room floor When the BART dips underground, the windows become dark mirrors and I can't help but notice the many angles in my face: the steep German nose, the hard lip line and the lines like scaffolding under my eyes. I think: I am pale and pockmarked. I still look like a teenager who operates on very little sleep. It�s the same on the left side. I mean the left side of the train, looking at my reflection from six feet away. My profile is not a soft one, not from any distance, not anymore. Maybe this is because I am hungover. (For pauses at sixteen I�d sit in front of the mirror and contemplate the uglier mysteries of organic life, so at least this means I�m the only one this intimate with the leaner, pitted parts. To other people we resemble whole selves. To ourselves we are over-analyzed fragments that never seem to cohere.) Damn. Got fake blood all over my coat. 10:15 pm - 11.01.03 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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