Monday, September 20, 2004


Timmy and I are walking around Portland. We look toward a small, one story house that has a door with a window on the top half (like the door on our house). There is a man, backlit by his television, who appears to be holding a gun. He reaches for the doorknob in an exagerrated fashion. We think he is going to come after us. Timothy pulls out a gun and shoots him. The lights come on behind him as the door opens and he falls on the ground, the imagined gun falling out of his hands and revealing itself as a long, narrow lamp base. His family is sitting on the couch in front of the television, they are all screaming. Timothy and I are freaking...he just killed an innocent man! The man's brother comes out of the house with some kind of ray gun and shoots Tim repeatedly in the stomach. Nothing happens at first, but after a few minutes Tim falls to the ground coughing and spitting blood. A hole appears in his stomach. Wet red blood flows from the expanding hole. I scream and kneel beside him, holding him tight to me, his blood staining my dress. He tries to speak and blood wells up out of his mouth. We look at each other, the horror in our eyes saying what words could not. I tell him I love him and caress his cheek. He dies. I close his lovely, blue, dead eyes.

I am alone.

I am walking around the city. The air is red and casts everything in it's own bloody hue. I go into a restaurant but I can't eat. I tell a nameless, faceless person about my sorrow as I sip a small cup of tea. I slide slowly out of my chair, out of my body, through the floor, and into my anguish.

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