Speaking less.

From Ghostwritten

I’d thought about the girl every day since. Twenty or thirty or forty times a day. I’d find myself thinking of her and then not want to stop, like not wanting to get out of a hot shower on a winter morning. I ran my fingers through my hair and contemplated my face, using a Fats Navarro CD as a hand-mirror. Could she ever feel the same way back? I couldn’t even remember accurately what she looked like. Smooth skin, highish cheekbones, narrowish eyes. Like a Chinese empress. I didn’t really think of her face when I thought of her. She was just there, a colour that didn’t have a name yet. The idea of her.
Since the Gawker and Observer coverage  of Tumblr microfame I have been questioning my online presence, a lot. The transition from journal to blog seemed seamless, effortless, and with a few savvy online decisions, even validating. What eschews me regularly is the reality that this, all of this, is microscopic, ephemeral, the dust that falls before the concrete is poured. There are things more worthy of exploration than my emotions, at least on these forums. There is a place for every idea.
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