writing from here.

sitting in the basement of the juniata college library in huntingdon pennsylvania. USA.
one month to the day since i caught that great white bird across the atlantic and my head still swirls in moments of weakness. the girls on the computers across the room are talking about leeds right now. how weird is life. thats a statement.

memory comes and goes. remembering life in flashes of photos and colors sounds and smells. my greatgrandmothers apartment building had a particular odor as well as the gymnasium at the camp i went to every summer when i was younger. while i was in england the smell of windex made me think of my father, cleaning our old coffee table. stories of childhood are related back to you and i when we are older and we tell them again like we were there. a story never gets old, but maybe you've heard this one before. i puked in the second grade and laid my reading book on the airconditioner to dry. this scar on my knuckle, slingshots and bandannas at the dinner table.