Recently, I've Discovered Radiohead And Find Them

Good Artists Exist In What They Make, And Consequently Are Perfectly Uninteresting In What They Are.

Through The Small Tall Bathroom Window The December Yard Is Gray And Scratchy, The Tree Calligraphic.

The House Is A Factory.

I've Never Had Wifi At Home. I'm Too Easily Distracted, And Youtube Is Too Tempting.

For Years I Feared The Opening Of Every Elevator, Half-convinced That From The Opened Doors Would Come A Bullet, For Me, Shot By A Man In A Tan Trenchcoat. I Have No Idea Why I Feared This, Expected It To Happen. I Even Knew How I Would React To This Bullet Coming From The Elevator Door, What Word I Would Say. That Word Was: Finally.