24.09.05 - 3:11 p.m.

i've turned poor louise fitzhugh into a zombie with my ineptitude at carving; her eyes are empty sockets and she's been laying, square and dead on my desk having written two of the best children's books of all time. also on my desk is a skein of yarn -- a future present -- and more pencil sharpeners than any one person could possibly need; burden of dreams (the love of werner herzog explains my husband to an extent with which he should probably not be comfortable); a note from lysa who now lives in brooklyn without her george, her tall tall bearded project who once offered to have a baby with me if i swore to name it ira. there are books and drafts of books that are not yet made and for some reason napkins like crazy. spools of thread and on top of a small pile of cds (horses who are not called that anymore, stereolab, new order, atom & his package [how did that get here?] and anna), a tiny piece of you that made my heart stop for a second. not because i'm not accustomed to your handwriting (because i am), and not because of what it says (something illegible, safari, around the something else illegible, sports, nature, space) but because it's insignificant like i wish more things could be. as everyday as a note that says don't forget to put the trash by the curb.

at the top, it looks like it says 'advil' or 'cd: [pi symbol]'.
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the project museum

the revolution will be catalogued

this american life

the library of congress

i used to believe







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