| dewy decimal |
2003-08-04 - 11:37 p.m.
I must have a inexhaustible love for piles because I surround myself with them. I am perpetually contained within these mutable containers...these fantastically lazy piles.
A luscious moat of porn, CDs, magazines, books and drawing materials surround the outskirts of my bed.
At the foot of my closet, piles of clothes have formed themselves into the ultimate ensemble. The most perfectly random enseble that will never have a use for my body.
In the car, CDs are irreverently stacked in cracks. When I play them they do this, when I play them they do this.
At work my computer is barracded by a history of paperwork. A collection of unused napkins are piled and stuffed anywhere anything else is not.
You name the environment, and I will tell you its corresponding pile. They are not neat little piles like the ones I described in New York. These are acts of carelessness committed by a very deliberate person. My inability to organize time, money, and attention is physically reflected by these self made enclosures. My only frustration is in other people's intolerence for stacks and for piles. Their manilla folders and paperclips are really fucking up my system. I ain't playin.
P.S. Look at any of my entries and concentrate on the dots on the dotted "i"s, the period marks "." and apsotrphes """. You will see that the pages are really freckled, especially evident in the larger paragraphs. they are peeking at you.