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Taps

It's 11:30 and I'm not sleepy. My house is really quiet.

Hey. You up? I know 11:30 isn't late, but it is so quiet here that I could almost swear that everyone is gone, though I can hear them breathing in the next room.

It's 11:45 and I'm sick of never finishing my novel (the one I'm reading, not the one I'm writing, which never existed in the first place, much like the dream of going to go live at the beach when you're 16). My going to law school was the financial equivalent of buying six cars which I now refuse to drive. "I have six cars worth of education in storage, but they're uh, they're not the cars I wanted. So I don't drive."

If I am unhappy it is because the things that come out of my head and hands do not come close to matching up to the things I have imagined. It's like when everyone thinks you're sad, but you're not - you just have a sad face.

At midnight here, due to the area's natural acoustics, you can here 'Taps' being played on a bugle about a mile away, over at Arlington Cemetary. It's nice. Quiet, but nice.





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post #350
bio: blaine
perma-link
1/20/2006
00:12

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