18 december

i think that if i were anything i would be orange sherbert. orange-flavored, or perhaps peach. sherbert must be one of the greatest inventions of man--singular, slipping gelatinously down one's throat like syrupy lightening, perching its sharply snowy feet up and down like a small bird along so many meters of nervous system.

i very much hope i should never cease to be novel. i think that if i began to congeal, i should stir so frantically to rearrange myself until once again i was that cuttingly peculiar sort of pet. otherwise, half the world would look elsewhere, and i would feel so maddeningly dull.

(i cringe to taste that hypocrisy crystallizing all over my skin)