and the night, i think

sometimes, i think i could be quiet for the rest of my life. i would make sounds, of course, but not really speak. i could clap instead of asking for cheese or ice cream, and gurgle when wine drips from mouth corners and stains wood and cotton. most of all, i could stare into fire until, finally, i stop feeling so young and insignificant against the backdrop of something so relentlessly ancient. every fire i light reminds me of death and the Sahara and nights spent on the dock overlooking the dirty jammed up river next to my dorm room and where i shouldn't have been in and everything i've meant to remember and forget and dance to and laugh with and at and the end.
the song "Brockwell Park" by the Red House Painters only exists once on youtube, and even then, it's just a cover. it's comforting to know not everything is online, available at the tip of your fingers, only a couple keystrokes away. what's so wrong with searching, with taking trains and more trains until finally you can find a record store where the song does exist, by the artist, and you can take it home in context.
i need to call back so many friends, but instead i've been wishing for a pen pal. i'd tell her/him about apple picking and how i can't wait for fall because of the too big sweaters and everything being red and all the sadness everywhere.