believe in me

when anna lets me into her house, i'm instantly assaulted by the oldness of the place. and the terribly almost neon yellow-colour of the paint that washs over every vertical surface in the house.

soon i'm introduced to a four different roomates- rocky, and robin, and joey, and some dude from the army who is truly built like two triagles, each point sharply pronounced and a neck that really, is more than a little frightening. we put on music and all dance around one another, making dinner and banana smoothies and tea in a kitchen that rivals my own for dysfunctionality in terms of space and set up.

two bottles of wine and a spaghetti dinner later, anna and i bundle up and search out a movie, settling on the painted veil with edward norton and naomi watts.

beautiful, but it probably would have been much more enjoyable if we had paid attention and not made horrible jokes the entire way through, jokes about cholera and female independance in the nineteen twenties and catholic sweat-shops and everything else -including canned oranges- under the sun.

walking home takes longer than i expect- every surface is covered in a fine sheen of ice, reflecting little noises and making even the slightest movement uncertain. cars slide precarious through intersections and the streets ring with the silence of a city that's long abed.

the moon was full, and despite being far from the dark sky expanses i'm used too, the stars still sang.