More is more than you can take.

[Hy & Dot kimono jacket from Pink in Richmond + Loeffler Randall shorts + Burberry heels]

Lately my brain has been stopping and starting, like a desk covered in curled Post-Its with zero connectivity, relevance, or chance of germination.

Under monuments to heros/men saw horrors I could never imagine/honor their past and draw from their strength; on sacred ground, what busted bricks, what turned pavement—those monuments to me.

Too close behind for comfort, then, “You’re wearing a new perfume.”

Halve recipes; leave too spicy for comfort.

Gas stations nearby that carry diesel: 1. [empty] 2. [empty]

I padded through the house today drinking up the sounds of having power again. I examined a pillow, ruined and flecked with filth, resignedly set it back down on the couch, and pulled a few dead leaves off a plant. I tripped over some empty Gatorade bottles beside the bed; tucked my hair behind my ears while I shook out the last of the melting ice from the cooler into the cast iron tub.

There’s a death of something in the air after a big storm—apprehension, curiosity, and exhilaration: they leave a stink in the air when they go.

So many Post-Its.

If they never found his brother’s body at the Pentagon, does any part of him still wonder?

6 unopened emails in the account I hate to check; 3 days they’ve sat there. To check, or not to check.

I don’t even know what my favorite color is.

[That’s a bud; not a turd.]

New Fan friends.

Between earthquakes and hurricanes, prolonged power outages; strange piles of sooty, black dust that collected after those gusts—menacing, fierce little piles—and those conversations I somehow always manage to initiate with myself at 3:45 am, when the world and everything in it is so dire you can barely stand it—I’m wiped out.

I want a manual for this stuff. This hive in the head.

Figure out why record player makes a ripping fart, stopping dead, halfway through the 3rd track.

I don’t know if I can look at that picture one more time. I don’t know if I can throw it away, either.

We’re going to go to an amusement part next week, isn’t that awesome? Don’t think Post-Its can stay stuck to a forehead that’s going roughly 70 mph!

-Carey

The Horrors, “Changing The Rain”