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2003-06-05 - 11:22 a.m. i used to sit on the floor of my mom's apartment in downtown oy*ster b*ay, with the snow piling up around the building, cold and alone and feeling like my typewriter, like my hands were the only thing i had. i would sit on the floor typing until my back hurt. i had a more romanticized notion of guns & violence back then and i thought of my typing noises as machine gun fire. i thought i was killing something reprehensible by writing. that typewriter is broken now; i know a lot more about violence now. i haven't lived in oy*ster ba*y proper since then, three years ago that feels like ten. i work at a useless, crappy office job but sometimes i stop to stare at my keyboard, staring at the button that represents each letter. twenty-six shattered mirror fragments. thinking about everything held inside each one
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