sleepyskin's Diaryland Diary

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two kilometeres ahead

scrubbing in between toes, the remnants of campfire emerge. I thought I had cleansed myself more thouroughly, but I was wrong. there's the smell of earth and dirt and dew somewhere on my back, the one spot that I couldn't reach to soak up, soak out the memory of the weekend. I still feel ashamed after I talk and I still feel ashamed when I'm silent.

sitting across from me, you, pale chested, shirtless and mosquito-bitten. you, chuckling at a yellow-covered book (you hold loosely), one hand clenched, the other supporting your ego-heavy head. gordon downie is crooning something or other about being ahead by a century through the wall of forest. others play chess, ignoring my idle, spontaneous outburts of contrived conversation. (focusing focusing focusing) on little marble martyrs. sacrifice and salvation. he says, looking up, "I see some damage being done." and in this his words meld with song somehow mixing to be amaturely poetic, as if poetic were something to strive for.

and somewhere around here there's a half finished (maybe a third) sketch of a tree.

your foot taps against the cooler that my feet are haplessly propped up against, closest to you, the furthest from where I'd like to be. we smile like sparks on shoes. we smell of stale fire.

he chuckles again as he reads.

"fuck me." I say, but not out loud. that is not the sort of thing you say to someone who is engrossed in a book, the furthest from where I'd like them to be. it's more my curiousity than my libido. it's more the need to know how you move (naked). it's more to clench onto.into your back. two hands. curled fingers.

next thing i know I'm stuck in a shopping cart in a window, everyone is staring. but none of it is really happening. it's all just distraction.

9:36 p.m. - July 22, 2001 (#3)

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