suicide makes me think of the word popsicle. specifically a dole raspberry juice bar with seeds coyly intact, 15 minutes out of the freezer and just beginning to drip onto your hand disastrously, sweetly, coldly. you might say, that's not the word, popsicle. that's the idea, popsicle. what's the difference?! [running for cover as the platonists take aim] or something. earlier tonight i looked with favor on the concrete terrace in back of HRN, thinking it would be a relief and a good end to a wasted bit of life. sometimes that mood just seizes you rai? it gets better though with some crepes, brisk weather, [no bottle rocket, unfortunately], almost knocked out of equilibrium by dawson's creek and so much work i can't even list here. but i realize it's not all over. i remember what a popsicle IS. maybe anand this weekend i will see you again and something tilted in me might go away. in the meantime i'm not sleeping. i have to earn this.