it's all half-light in here

it comes in small pieces, little bits of your cabin with gingham, lots of gingham. there's your email that hits, hard, and i think about it while listening to yo la tengo and the new old 97s cd and jonimitchellbobdylanalways. my hair gravitates outside, tired of the inside of this toyota corolla that doesn't have the character of my old, rusting '91 honda accord. i almost died in that car, on the side of some wyoming road in the middle of a blizzard and when i thought i had lost you, it was me in that car, all wool sweaters from mexico and tears above Fremont Lake. it was me and my roommates and talk of Life, What's In Store? and rilo kiley in the background and avocado sandwiches and we shrugged and laughed and said ah well as long as there's letters by candlelight i guess it will be alright. there's too much light these days, too many ceiling lights, not enough non pretentious dingy bars. here, the lack of light is on purpose and otherwise it's a flood of halogen, an assault on your senses until you adapt to an all fake world. your email hits, hard, and my heart subsists on google images and the light that emanates from this laptop. there's so many silences and so much other-meaning behind my words and i think i'll die with novels having been written in my pauses and ellipses...