Isn't Anything

i can't sleep. this is february, with its soot and snow. the girl who lives beside me, she's arguing with her boyfriend. an all-night tirade. squeals and yelps, high pitched pleas. a couple low whimpers, some growling as well. the carpet has its own scent, and there are cranberry juice stains everywhere. some of my sweaters have holes in them. they wear them proudly, i'll bet.

i'm finding old tapes of my bloody valentine's isn't anything because my stereo is fucking broken again; the cd player won't read anything. garh. but this is fortunate, in that i've neglected my bloody valentine. and oh my. i should slap myself for forgetting even for a moment how dim and bright, dirty and pristine this writing is. this is such a .!. album. i say my bloody valentine created some of the dirtiest, brightest sounds i ever stumbled upon. those songs are red corduroy-clothed hips and skinny strands of hair you push away to hide the evidence. it's so amazing. forces running in polar opposite directions; the immediacy, the urgency of lust coupled with suddeninstant reflection. and she does, she does have...bilinda butcher does have the sexiest voice ever. i promise, i swear it.

all of my friends say my bloody valentine and their songs are scary. oh yes. oh but.

/

two years i walked everywhere in the snow with black boots trampling through soft things and headphones sturdy set and my father's quilted patchwork navyblue motor jacket trailing steadfast. made progress and nothing; listened to "lose my breath" and "feed me with your kiss" over and over and over and ...

midterms, exams. examination. hidden mind, scoot off to your dingy part of the stairwell. don't examine me.

and i. well i.

'cause i was busy dreaming.