I remember loving you now.

I fell in love with radio and then it faded. Not the signal. That did not fade. The passionate love did. That beginning love. Run around a new city at night hand-in-hand smiling and laughing and kissing love. It ran hard then got tired. Faded. Leaning over, hands on my knees, catching my breath, tired.

Then I heard this. Everyone should listen to this: Ghetto Life 101.

I knew I loved you, radio. It’s still there.

Same goes for Death Cab for Cutie.

That simple video. Those lyrics. That wandery sound you put in my walk around this city I’m sure I’ve ruined.

I remember loving you now.

I never truly loved Anthony Bourdain. But I ache thinking of the depth of darkness that overpowered the love he felt. Because—goddammit—he was loved. And I never loved cooking, but this article makes me feel I should. Maybe it would help certain flavors of lonely.

A placemat in Paris asked us our favorite poem. Poems! Poetry! I forgot about poetry. I used to love you. I read a poem every night. Some mornings. This poem has shaken us both to the core and that day in Paris—and today—it is my favorite.

My Poem About Last Sounds.

Thank you, Prageeta.

Oh, blahgging. What a weird memory. Sitting down. Randomly contributing. Instead of consuming and consuming and consuming and consuming and consuming and contributing and repeating.

The irrelevance of this sentence and the dozens before is refreshing. I remember I love you now.

But it wouldn’t be a true blahg post without…

regal_swazetitties

Y’all like my new pillows?

Ahh, there she is… in those horrid Photo Booth selfies.

[there she is.]

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