1/03/08: or, Meteors and the Year of Crafts

To my left there is a little China man with spectacles that are framed in a black plastic.  No, to my left is a wall.  To my right is the China man.  Sorry.“Sorry.”  It sounded like honey on her stomach.  Off-brand honey, not the good stuff.  Not that I even knew or know what that sounded or sounds like, but that’s what it sounded like to me when I said it.“You have nothing to be sorry for.”  Then she laughed and I died inside or felt alive for the first time or one or the other.  In the times that we live in it’s pretty cool to be morbid and fatalistic; but I’m sure someone thought the same thing when they were my age and are one hundred now.I don’t even know why I keep glancing at the China man.  He probably isn’t even Chinese, wait why would I judge myself quietly to myself?

[Unreadable after this last sentence, the letters have blurred on the page and it's impossible to bring them into focus with one's eyes and also with the proper tools.  The letters become clear and legible forty five pages later.]