18 July 2004

Where's the Tongue? (oh, it's chicken)

Son, can you play me a melody?
I'm not really sure how it goes
But it's sad and it's sweet and I knew it complete
When I wore a younger man's clothes

You could feel it those mornings, smell it even, the unparalleled smell of a morning where the panes of glass above his head were frosted over in pleasant patterns and fogged from the warm blasts issuing boisterously from the heating ducts rattling slightly, but soothing throughout the calm awakening effervescing warmth to comfort. The smell of fresh soap and scented powder slipped past the door sitting slightly ajar as the sound of clanking forks against Corel dishware eased into the hushed consciousness that pleasantly lifted filling young eyes with the gleam of anticipation—SNOW! Assuredly the white world was there just beyond the glass all glimmered and glistened and full of grand escapades and childish innocence and forgetfulness of life all together. Bound in snow pants and thick warm boots the wintry world could not mount any assault against his happiness for even escape was assured to a warm nestled bed and hot chocolate in mugs too big for his hands.

You know, Italian women all have really big, uh, ummm, hands, yeah hands. In my sleeplessness I tend to remember the small things. No, not that, that's not small at all, we've been over this before. I can definitely say that most things are far too large for my hands, metaphysically speaking that is, but I've been groomed for it I suppose. Oh, but I do miss something very much. There's just something very sleep inducing about a woman sleeping next to you. I think tv and a pbj samich is in order. Maybe a soda, yes I said soda.

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