so let's all move on, please. The urge to bury everything under an avalanche of words, like a previous tide that swept a stackful of photos off the desk, and dumped an encyclopedic amount of books on top of the useless pictures. if a picture paints a thousand words, crooned bread. well I happen to like words infinitely more. For this moment, anyway, and have had a long while before.

I've been folding paper cranes a whole lot recently. and eating dried [with copious amounts of sugar] logan, and now the shirt I'm wearing- I lower my head and take a generous whiff. good. It smells nice. glad I changed my laundry detergent. The air around me is heavy with anticipation. Not just the onset of evening and the noisy chorous the above birds make. It's going to rain, I believe. Every southeastasian can sense rainy weather, I think. It hangs in the air, and it could be one of perhaps two things. One: it's a conscious action to scoop and taste [figuratively] the nearest moisture tapestry hanging somewhere close to your ledge. Two: an unconscious recognition so that if your fellow southeastasian neighbour goes 'looks like rain', you don't think, you nod your head. Either way: it's an innate mystery much akin to the wonder an urban man would give to the mythical abilities of the red indian.
Eskimo girls blow on each other's vocal chords, producing an unearthly sound. Southeastasians foretell rain.
and while this paragraph was forming, the rains did come.