24 May 2002


When chemistry and complex compounds linger, the day has a scratchy record needle feel. 33 RPM long play mornings bring about crackling fuzz, and every now and then there is a relaxed pop and skip, and it takes a moment before I realize there's a bum harrassing me for the cigarette I don't have. Two cups of coffee cause the world to hiss like a cassette in a badass silver ghetto blaster. Vaguely in the vicinity of the bakery, while chatting about journalism with a sad-eyed girl seated upon a plastic bench, my head becomes encased in lemon gelatin and I feel like I'm 16.

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