warren of rabbits, den of rabbits

Swann. Swee, swee.

A few nights previous saw a blood moon - I glanced but a slow sliver before it was mottled, completely, in carmine.

Grace in all things, even these bardo states that toss me between pond and reservoir, palm and paw. I feel like a curio cabinet, swung open, split with shelves and sub-divisions, drawers that can't close completely. Sheaths and sheaths. Shivering cocoons. Dead letters and bodies, unlocking.

After an evening of effusive engagements, along with the social melee of Nick Jaina's double-header CD release party, the day is blanketed in canopies of lethargy. I am at a cafe with Daniel, who is reading The Great Gatsby and intermittently editing one of his latest short stories. We just came up with a way to say "I drink your milkshake." in sign language, involving teat-suckling hand gestures. Tonight is a going-away party of sorts, since Nick is going on tour for two months, so I'm storing my energy like a camel.

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