We're awfully sorry about the flood, but at least you can be thankful it wasn't a molasses flood.

This space is too small. What seemed like a quirky, fitting color choice in the summer only absorbs the grey outside. It's too dark here. The birds no longer move on the walls, the only flowers I have are carnations. I hate carnations. I try to give them a chance every now and then. I shouldn't have such hard feelings against them. They're cheap, they smell better than daisies. But something about them seems so artificial. Despite their longevity, I feel like I have purchased a vase of dead flowers, "Trockne Bluemen," like the boy who loved the miller's daughter.

Emaciated Pete still hangs on my wall. I know that's just another weird thing about me, probably not the strangest, but tangible: "and she has this glow-in-the-dark SKELETON on her bedroom wall. Right across from her bed! She must look at it at night, alone but with two figures. Weird." It's said in the same voice that I imagine other people saying when I wear hot pink, or weird shoes, or when I bite my nails in public, or when I laugh too loud in the grocery store.

I cut the carnations too short and put them in a jar with a mouth that's too wide. They don't fall apart, preferring to lean in a bunch despite any coaxing, leaning towards the window covered with blinds that faces right into the neighbor's house. Yesterday I saw a dead crow on the border between my lawn and my neighbor's. Just lying on the ground, eyes and beak open. I wonder if it's still there.

I'm making a very conscious effort for this fall to be different from last fall. Some things are different, but others are the same. Some things I can't even pinpoint. Being vague is as fun as doing this other thing. As usual, I am too caught up with the things beyond my control and should be focusing on what I can do to make me feel better. And, like usual, the minutia is a major stumbling block.