11:38 on a saturday night

downtown sebastopol has more sounds of nature than you might think. my phone died so only now am i forced to listen and really consider it. mainly, crickets chirping. but also, a dog faintly barking to the steps of its owner arriving home for the night. 11:38 on a saturday night. the kitchen faucet dripping, the kitchen light turning off. the birds chirping their goodnight chirps. my cat watches me from the dining room window as i anxiously finish my last cigarette, only “last” because it’s rolled with my last paper. i’m wearing maisie’s hole band t-shirt. i don’t even love hole that much but i love this shirt because it’s her’s, and because it has a story— she told me— it belonged to the father of an old friend of hers, bought in the 90’s at a hole show, and all the bleach stains along the bottom rim of the fabric are from his heroin needle. i love wearing things that have a story; i love owning things that have a story, whether they are my story or the story of others. like the charcoal-sketched drawing pinned on my wall, that has remained on my wall despite my months of taking things off of my walls. it’s of me sitting next to a girl i met in italy, drawn by another person i met in italy. i don’t know either of these people well and haven’t kept in touch with either of them since being in italy but probably i could have fallen in love with either of them. i don’t keep the drawing on my wall as a reminder of the lost love but rather of the story, the story that i once was living, oh so long ago. i also collect old photos from antique stores because i know that each photo has a story, although i don’t know it; i love them because i don’t know their stories. perhaps it’s because i can invent them. i think it’s mainly just a way of feeling connected with other people in the world, even if they’re strangers, even if i’m fated to never truly know their story; although why do i cherish my connections with people most when they are strangers and it is impossible for me to truly know their story? what has shaped me in only twenty-one years to be this way, to find these types of things as my primary form of solace and connection with the world? this is another wine-drunk post. i feel more clear-headed than ever.