stalactite ceiling mold that drips upon my shampooed hair

tripping in NYC...everything moves. collapsing by the Washington Square Arch and watching everything pulse with color. the trees are breathing, the leaves are twirling in unnatural ways. this is not real.


moldy brown spots on the ceiling of our bathroom. medicine cabinet behind the mirror that remained unknown till just this Friday - a whole new set of shelves means a lot in such a small space.


still doesn't smell of fall - only of car exhaust and fried food and laundry. the park is mostly closed. a chain link fence blocks off the shortcuts that i would take on the way to class.


my friend and i laughing in the tiny elevator full of strangers. i've got a pot and four packets of ramen. he's got handfuls of stolen candy. the victim of the theft is asleep like a bum, on top of his covers. his jacket is still on. some motherly instinct tells me to cover him up. but i refrain. i stay away and listen to him snore and steal his candy.


inside the record store, everything still new and confusing. my mind is in too many places at once and there's records everywhere. i'm tripping over them. my eyes can't stay still. genuine new york accent from the depths of the store says, "what do you think of iceland?" female voice answers, "oh, don't start this again." gray man with glasses asks me, "you need any help?" i walk outside and contemplate taking off my sweater. it's so warm.


i finally feel at home. i see the green canopy of my building and the smokers standing outside and i know i am home. i collapse in my bed early in the morning and i am happy.


still at times a restlessness rises into my chest and i want to run and scream and the nice thing is i guess i could. no one would notice here. i am invisible.


i am so far away from everything known. someone could wake me up and say, "the last two months have been a dream." and i would nod and believe it as a truth, thinking, "what a strange dream." and really, what is the difference?


new york is not beautiful in the fall. not anymore beautiful than in the summer. nothing really changes. buildings are building are buildings. they don't follow the seasons. and here i am - "i change slowly, softly, plainly, blindly." Like the trees that arch the road back home that must be orange and red and yellow by now.