I'm in the
Little Five Points MARTA station. The other end of this granite bench reeks of pot. I wonder if the two men at the other end smell it, too. Just gave a man
MARTA fare. Lots of people in the MARTA station ask for change.
I've been watching too much t.v. lately, actually letting it cut into my sleep time. A voice and picture to fill up an empty house.
On my way home now, the summer sky is darker than usual for this time of night. The sky looks deep, like a tremendous sea of water, like we're touching the bottom. White houses glow as if in black light.
I feel sick to my stomach and I need to poop. There's real journal material for posterity. Why is it less crude to say, "I need to puke" than it is to say "I need to poop"? We all poop everyday, no big whoop, and puking is so violent and ugly. I've started to worry about if I'm "really" good at writing. I used to write out of instinct and necessity; I still do, write without a 'because,' I just have to, but sometimes too much of me feels people listening.