August 16
spiderman... if i crawl it may as well be on ceilings and walls.

August 19
I have declared Sandro's Hate Songs a masterpiece. The cold voice spaced from the
sparse rising wane of music, the beautiful horns succumb you to a certain
part of day giving in to night or night acceding to urban lights, embarking in
different directions, separate ways, composed at a fork in the road. The city sleeps
as one lover weeps and the other keeps chilled with wind and ice-cream
outside seated on window sill, legs on the grill of the firescape, back at room
temperature, the harsh voice true like Robin Hood's arrow, fires the darkness in 
the courtyards, serenaders exposed and singed, flattened on the grass, windows beckon,
there are no ladies waiting anxiously. Fragility preserved. Words and notes released,
emancipated from each other yet resonating in concert even as they sail off on
paper airplanes without concrete direction, left to the turbulence generated by
their very own substances.