Walking You Home With a Bottle of Boone's Between Us

I saw another dead bird on its back today. This time it was next to the door I go through to enter my office building. A fleshy woman was flicking her cigarette ash at it, geniusly hypothesizing that it flew into a window, and was pretty stiff, and therefore definitely dead. It was a tiny thing, with shoots of blue in its feathers. It's eyes were open and shiny, like tiny black pearls.

I feel alternately blessed and saddened that I witness these things. I think such ambivalence comes from the fact that I am affected by a dead bird or a drowning duck in a different way than, say, my dad would be. I am happy to experience moments like this, but I am sad at my happiness. Like that gratefulness you inevitably feel after a horrible break-up, because you know you're different now. As Cap'n Jazz says, "It's like finally realizing how lucky you really are to have had a few great heartbreaks."

Chicago was so amazing. The architecture of every building was awe-inspiring. We went to Millenium Park, tourists that we were, and viewed the city from there. It was freezing but I welcomed the change. My cheeks were constantly rosy. I am researching warm winter coats on Ebay now. (eBay? iPod?) (warm winter: oxymoron?)

Currently I am stalled on a story I'm writing. All I have is an image. Which brings me to the question of the ages: where does a story begin? With an image? With a problem? With a resolution?

A wish: "Yet I,/who say this, could not raise/myself from bed how many days/to the thieving world. Child, I have another wife,/another child. We try to choose our life."