Coffee: Maxwell House Master Blend, Office Coffee
I’m sitting here listening to crickets. They know it’s summer. Of course, they don’t know what to call it, so they just say ‘srr-srr-srr-srr-srr-srr-srr-srr’ instead.
I don’t like my voice. Every now and then, when I’m sleep deprived, or I’ve been smoking, I like how it sounds, but usually it gets to me. It doesn’t hit pitches like I want it too. I was at this reading that I wanted to knock out the park – I sounded like anyone else.
There’s this woman that sends me pictures of cats. Sometimes they’re hers, sometimes they’re internet cats. So I sent her cats back and since I don’t have any of my own (and the neighborhood troupe is gone) I stick to the internet for supplies. One video was three cats in a barn going back and forth with each other rehearsing lines. Then they run off to play.
The crickets are still going. They won’t stop until it’s too cold. When it’s too cold, they’ll still be out there, only some will be sleeping and the others will be dead. Are you really still out there if you’re dead? A dull wind goes through an empty exoskeleton. Still makes a sound, I guess.
Currently Reading: Queen, Suzanne Crain Miller
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Those are the most monotonous fuckin’ crickets I ever heard in my life.Sam Shephard, True West