I was working and there was a lady sitting in the little alcove by the bubbler. A man in a Packers jacket was near her, in front of her, and I have no clue what he said, but she suddenly began to cry. It was the �what have I done?� sort of crying, or at least it sounded that way, and she sounded terribly unhappy. The only intelligible thing I heard her say was �Damn,� right as she began to cry.

What would make a person cry like that in a public place? It was something she had done, I think, but I wonder what it would be like to find out a relative had just died when standing in the center of a crowded room. It would be like having swords stuck into you. It�d be like staring down a glass of cobra blood.

It would be awful.

I�d be horrified, and I�d weep, and I�d scream and I wouldn�t be quiet. Times like those deserve no silence. There should be yelling and screeching. A dead person deserves noise like no other noise on earth. A raucous, horrible one.

Leaves come to mind, and I don�t know why. Leaves, golden green leaves, blowing in the wind leaves, crinkling under shoes leaves. I�m sad when I step on leaves, because they crumble to dust like bones, and it simply feels so final. I love the sound, though�I suppose I�m just an unapologetic leaf torturer? Except I admitted that I feel rather bad, and so I can�t be unapologetic. I don�t think.

The night sky is lovely, dark and deep�and I just paraphrased Robert Frost. Sometimes, I feel like there�s not a single original thing to say that means anything and perhaps I�d be better off just quoting until the cows came home.

But that�s depressing and it can�t be true. There are too many words on earth�there are always new things to say. The problem, of course, comes in trying to string them together in something that resembles sense. Otherwise we get something like �yetis and begonias running hyper linoleum� and that�s just not so beautiful as �Hope is a thing with feathers.�

Maybe I just can�t appreciate yetis and begonias running hyper linoleum, though. Sounds rather like an e. e. cummings poem�and while I know he didn�t legally change his name so that the letters were small, I like how the little E�s look together. Grace Slick was going to name her daughter god but she thought better of it. I think that I�d rather be China (or even Chynna, like Chynna Phillips) before god. I shouldn�t like to be God, either. I�d have lots of power, but I�d have far too much responsibility.

But I�d be able to handle it, if I were God, wouldn�t I? But I�d feel terrible when bad things happened on earth and I couldn�t stop them.

I�m drowsy. More than drowsy, I�m getting exhausterated. I love that word. It�s so Little Women, so very Amy March. My eyelids keep sinking down like dropped bits of wood, only to rise back again to the surface and leave my eyes open. I wish that I could go to sleep right now, but I�d feel bad about not doing this entire thing immediately. So I�ll wait until the music I chose is finished.

I love the way the sun glistens sometimes, reflecting in the cool green of the clover leaves. So fuzzy does the reflecting make the sun that it could be a sweater, a scarf, a something to warm even the coldest of hearts. The coldest people don�t generally look at things like clovers, though, I bet. I wouldn�t.

I like how clovers taste.

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