if you get bored, of this, stop reading:
i have made a list for august, and making it i remembered back on a few weeks a few years ago when i woke in the summer sunshine and laid in my bed, with a bright pink blanket, while i wrote three pages of only half-awoken ideas (about the past, and more recently the night before, still coming back minute by minute) each day. i didn't manage to record a time of starting, but seeing back it sounds like i thrilled myself to pieces by sleeping through the late afternoon, waking in time for the cooled darkness, and slept until wheneveri liked. for days at a time, no, really?
a few years later, now. i have laughed to tears and just cried, plainly, todayy or yesterday. felt great, that range of madness.
