The cut on my finger reminds me of nothing.

I want things in life to be meaningful. Every second. Every piece of life. Every little thing to remind me of things: simple, complicated, silly, deep, colorful, funny, sad, etc. But this cut reminds me of nothing, but pain a bit of blood.

I've been dreaming of showing art at La Luna. Dreaming, because that's a bit far away and lately it seems like the border-crossing talk is getting irritable.

I'll have lunch with a friend this week, just to catch up.

And I'll jump on top of another pile of dry, dead leaves. They're so crunchy... makes me happy.

It's getting cold. Pero la sangre que salio de la herida estaba calientita.