2017-12-24 - 1:10 p.m.
Does Sheryl Crow's "My Favorite Mistake" count as a guilty pleasure? It rips me up a little every time. It's got that lovely melancholy that gets me. The bruise that feels good when you press on it.
Saw an owl last night. My third, I think. Was in the suburbs, for the annual hang with college friends. I miss those people and I miss, to be perfectly fucking frank here, those two-three years when we were all living together, eating, drinking, fucking, fucking up, being just kids, really. So much happens so fast then, doesn't it, though it does not feel that way at the time. Now, it looks like one hundred pages of photographs, earnest poems, song lyrics, pressed flowers, all hundred pages riffling past so fast. Then, it looked like this: mistakes, longing, flashes of ecstasy, and this bottomless yearning that was warm to the touch.
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