shivers down my spine listening to summer music:

asobi seksu, STAR, broken social scene, mazzy star, the futureheads, yo la tengo, clap your hands say yeah, m83, new order, feist, et cetera.

I say this because it's nice to know the shape of wordswith connotation, marionetted ideas hanging as delicacies, yeah, whatever. an underground flight, hands held swerved left, right, waiting for movement, doors open, larger shapes of metal, the train taken to coney island, far rockaway, the smell of rice? cooking or a $3.75 sandwich with a can of soda and YES what I think is the taste of bottomlessness and looming helplessness, solitude, a vertigo of having my feet swept out from underneath me, temporary havens identified as the self briefly blinked on and shitted in, passed by, up and down streets in unmarked livery cabs. underworldian pomo sorrow nostalgia warmth sepia-tone steeped in everywhere. whatever. time to sleep.