Winter has thus far only seeped into my bedroom, like dust lurking fittingly in all my drawers and picture frames. J came over and flung open my windows, and now winter lives here comfortably. Walls have very little work to do when my windows are open, for they're protecting me from nothing but the hallway. I like all the big warm galaxies outside which belong to other people; the neighbors and the mailman, their many rushes and concerns. They're quite dreary and irksome, each going-on which I manipulate into fantastic and intimate suspense.

Everyone worries about M. She spins and pirouettes in her archaic ballerina shoes until her toes bleed.

Formerly, I called this the most perfect song, but have since realized that perfect is its own superlative. Additionally, it's purely coincidence that it is January and I am sharing such a song.




(I didn't take this. I don't know who did. It would be proper to keep track of such things.)