20 November 2002 - 3:40 p.m. This is the thing with crash and I popped a soap-bubble clinging to a mirror. It's reflection popped almost simultaneously. I bit my lip again--more like the inside of my cheek. I keep biting it as it swells--cycling like the spokes of a wagon wheel crushing exotic and rare plants. Too man reds. One should be enough for all but the most sensitive artist. Red is red and you can bleed it all you want, but I need tubes and tubes of green artist paint to replace the paved-over backyard of my neighbors. They scream at each other with equatorial-hued accents while the bird and the dog yelp for attention. There are cats--fluffy and smooth like fake cats, but living. They pose like actresses from the twenties, poised in their self-confidence and defiant nature. The sun is a brand-new idea. A popsicle melting into a puddle of orange-flavored sugar-water that chihuahuas lap up before their owners yank them away thinking it's radiator fluid or lymph. Everyone expects to see the most amazing thing they've ever seen, but rarely da and less and less often as they become used to the amazement. At one point it was true. (0) Comments?