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Sunlight | Jan 19 2003

I can’t give what I don’t have. There’s sunlight on the surface of my desk. It’s coming through the window, from under the window shade, from across the space between the window and the sun, which is where it comes from. Shall I give it to you? Here, look, I am taking a picture of it. Is this what you want? Or do you want what you want not because you ask but because you want me to want you to have it? There are a lot of wants in that sentence, but you know what I mean.

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Yesterday while walking along Washington Street, I sang the Clash song Janie Jones. Do you know it?

He’s in love with rock and roll woaahh
He’s in love with getting stoned woaahh
He’s in love with Janie Jones woaahh
But he don’t like his boring job, no…

I was singing Janie Jones because I had a cold and because I like how my voice sounds when I’m sick and sing songs like that. When I got home I tried to record myself singing it, to give to you, but something went wrong.

Sophia sat behind me, at the kitchen table, as I tried to record it. I kept apologizing to her because of how horrible it sounded—I was screeching—but she insisted it was fine. I really don’t think it was fine.

Anyway I’m sorry the recording didn’t work out because it was something I wanted to give you. I’ve since figured out what the problem was (the plug on the mic wasn’t all the way in), but now it’s too late to try again because I’m feeling much better and can’t get my voice to sound quite so bad.