piecemeal raze your dreams are broken toilet seats, piled on top of you. the thing is, they're not dreams, but more of a waking separation from who & what you are. you disguise your voice on the phone. of all people, some random salesperson senses that the voice isn't truly yours. instead of making use of a possible railing, we hold hands & descend the stairs in a brisk kind of sliding. which is fine, until i lose my footing & we fall behind. she's crying & telling me something important, but i don't understand. for some reason, it's the people i don't think about that keep reappearing. you'd think there'd be more emphasis on the present. it never makes sense, but there's always at least one common thread: the lack of intimacy. when it is there, it's fuzzed-out, seen more than it's felt. almost like i'm never quite a part of whatever it is i'm in the middle of. terminally disconnected, but subtly so. swimming pools unwashed skin broken connections dinner with strangers none of it seems to mean anything. there's the illusion of a payoff or a development that makes some amount of sense, but then it swerves into something completely unrelated. maybe the thing to do is just trying to capture the sound of it. dirty nails, cold hands & emotions without justification. 031124 ... raze plastic stitches that won't dissolve one anonymous torso but i recognize the car 031126 ... raze you open your mouth & a butterfly comes out you don't plan it it just happens 031214 what's it to you? who go blather from