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Tonight I remembered how alone you made me feel that day. It wasn’t a sudden thing—the emptiness had built for months, but I chose that afternoon to burst. I cried for hours. It was the 5th of July, an appropriate day for leftover explosions. #

We always use Spanish for our greetings; a buenas noches here, a nos vemos there. It seems the excitement of hello and the longing of goodbye are too much to bear, and are best whispered in a language that lacks subtlety for us. #

My Spanish teacher had a way of dropping little relevant bits of knowledge into his lessons, like that most words beginning with al- are of Arabic origin: almuerzo for lunch, alhaja for jewel. We went on a field trip to a Mexican restaurant on the last day of class, and the week before, as he was giving us directions, he mentioned that Santa Monica has no 13th St. because it’s unlucky. Instead, it’s Euclid St.—how apropos to use an inventor of geometry and logic to ward off superstition. Just now, at 12:44, I’m thinking about how strange it is that our hour-hands never reach 13, and I’ve decided it must be for the same reason. If we had a 13th hour, we would certainly call it Euclid. #

Some people have living rooms, others have recording studios. #

Things that I love about writing: the way that A is the most feminine letter; the promise of ending ellipses, and the way that they are made of something so final as three periods; the difference between em dashes, en dashes, and hyphens; the transmutative property of double-quotes: that suddenly, what I have written is not my speech. #