my journal


It's got bits pasted all over it and stuffed into its pages, torn strips of subway maps and tickets and the orphaned sentences of other people and a lost key and an illustrated plate of a small brown moth. Why? Insulation, maybe. If I use glue on it, if I doodle and fold and use it as a junk drawer, then I can shrug at all the scratched-out mess that would otherwise be cleanly deleted.

Every now and then I might share some scribbles, even though I know it's just scribbles. Everyone's got those.


Resistance is interesting.