02.16.07

The smell of cigarettes is sweet.

The smell of my cappuccino in the morning, next to my pyramid shaped brownies, is sour, stale. The smell of rotting milk. That is the scent of the foam on top. The froth which is tinged caf� au lait by the coffee beneath. Boiling milk is rotting it. That�s where the scent comes from.
I dump packets of brown sugar into I and I bite my lip, I can lift my eye when I walk outside in his cold snow, so all that I see is the old grey stone sidewalk (I think about the men who must have been here, shoveling aside the snow before the sun woke. The men, who if they were here now would look at me as I walked by, turning their heads) surrounded by is border of pure white snow.
Today is better. Other days only walking through the snow is tiring in itself. Like Monday when the wind blew the snow straight into our faces as we made fresh prints in the early morning snow.
I was happier then.
Now, though I should feel anxious, excited, I am holding back tears.

shi-ou-sama at 1:56 p.m.

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