in white.

Paper. It's going out of style. I can't even write on it anymore. I can't hear me on it, but I miss the way it feels in my hands. I miss the truth of it. Pen to parchment, no eras-eys, no copy pasting. It's the realest thing I know.

But for now, this is where I am. 

I don't have a lot to say today. I'm busy listening to the traffic, the crickets, and Calexico, all slightly quieted by way of the Indian summer humidity.

And it makes me wonder who can hear me.