Tuesday, January 09, 2007

the mysterious origin of eggs

our christmas tree was dead when i left it and dead it is still. the thick layer of needles on the floor reminds me of the nettles from the wild swans. those you must pluck will burn your hands into blisters. and something must be wrong with me because i've never anticipated anything unpleasent without the accompanying sensation of not dread but intrigue. this will make a story.
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