is pretty doggone hot gnome sane. mister's smart rolling in long grass shadow. comet tongue on the ground still wanna play ball. some boy shot a girl. otherwise quiet. r. tells trudy it's memorial day. trudy says oh, the end of summer already. i'm feeling a little light-headed too. i forgot my memory card twice, then my camera. it does seem like the end has just begun.
i found a book in the free box. real dessicated, foxed, leaves falling, this poem by fuller felt out:
i fear the plucking hand
that from our equal season
sent you towards the spring
but left me suavely wound
in the cocoon of reason
that preluded your wings.
as the more supple fin
found use in crawling, so
some new and rapid nerve
brought close your flesh to brain,
transformed utopia
to death for human love.
in the cocoon
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