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I hate clones. I hate people who smoke. I hate clones who smoke, I hate black-and-white movies, I hate lazily-spinning ceiling fans and shabby offices. I go home once every four months and watch gardening shows, because I cannot garden, because of a clone. I want to take a year off and watch something grow and live and die and know that it will never, ever, come back. (Irreproducible)

Some people can write. Some people have mad diary skills. I'm a poet: so here's some of my stuff.

I lied. :-) I'm also a writer. Except I didn't totally lie. Some of my poetry is prose. And it's About flows of conciousness. And Seana-Ra.* And the light, and the sunset and a viewpoint, and the time right after you look at her. And sometimes, Thanksgiving.

She's like a Daydream, the way light attaches to her, and she was My First Kiss. It was August Twenty-Second, on the Streets of Ardmore, because there was Nothing on TV, I suppose. She Never told me, and what would Strangers know of The Futility of Flowers?

During a layover in Moscow, in the midst of the Russian Dining Winter, I thought I saw someone I'd seen before. It was like looking out from the Tokyo bullet train and seeing a Purple Mountain from Colorado: something I thought I would never do. And so I took out my Pencil and Inks, and drew, before I forgot, a sketch of Sleep's Head.

She wore a dress the Color of Sky under Lightning, and reminded me that Rose is Not a Flower. And that Rainbows are neither.

(A few things -- like this 9mm -- don't readily fit in a travelogue, so I'll keep them here.)

So while I'm travelling, sometimes I'll hear stories; and some of them are worth writing down, like the one about the Pack and Loser.