the good life. the longer i wait the more important the next entry somehow becomes and then it is not important enough to actually make it here and so then time passes and the next entry does not happen and this is an excuse as bad as any of the ones found in calendars that sold as diaries to those who hope to fill them by the end of the year and yet barely make it beyond january 10th. my caves are still littered with bones and sculls and there are plants growing at the openings. i give them to drink. outside the birds are hardly happy to see me, though the chirping does sound like a joyful series of hellos. cicadas make some of the moments here appear truly exotic. am i somewhere in the wild? was this a dragon moving past the neighborhood or is it just the miracle of a safely landing plane? it was good to leave the air conditioner off last night. the open windows are quite good at creating a calm draft. it almost feels like september today. and september will soon be here. it will just roll over me before i will even know where exactly i am. and i will be on a plane, coming back from the west coast then. and i hope that there will be some sense of accomplishment somewhere deep in the depths of my belly, which right now makes me feel as if i were carrying some sort of offspring in me. my nausea started about two hours ago, it is a mix of nervousness and emptiness and quite possibly a lack of sleep. the open windows, the cicadas, the birds, the landing planes, the draft, the emptiness of my caves, the mid of august melancholia just stuck its gloved arm into my guts and is shaking the hand of the inside me, ready to create the next me which will then sit in its belly waiting to be fed the next day. maybe some parts of me feel like the smoked furniture by Maarten Baas... and maybe these exact parts have to be that way because they are created to be here to stay. who gives a **** about a happy child? : )