Dancing and buying milk that is not milk

dear papa i have arrived in

Torun train station littered with lost marble

and bought peach and pomegrenate juice

for 3.99zls maybe I can buy the

world is raining raining

raining men allelujah it's raining

men (ought not to make generalisations about, especially not the

Polish men too tall and like men-I-know but not at all.

i would like a hug.

Warsaw is muddy.

The airport men hand held guns, black like toys.

Bread in Torun is for teaching integration -

a truncated ellipsoid sliced into cross-section planes,

we find the volume by making an infinite number of planes as

t approaches zero. Auckland bread, rectangular prisms,

too boring for thinking of integration.

Let's describe everything in spherical co-ordinates:

x=rho sine theta cos thingee thingee?

I have already begun to forget.

Oh no.

My poetry today is terrible,

but 'blogging' seems worse, dry and torn

like burnt polish dumplings (wrapped in cabbage, not pastry) on the pan

i had to scrub.

maybe dancing to two in strange clothes

has left me disjointed?

i miss my dresses my cat my cool

jeans are just not me but i somehow have no energy to buy the boots to match

sighs

everything has become a sign to hang onto

a weapon of sorts

soon i will be stronger;

not defined by what i wear

or by the milk-that-is-not-milk that i accidentally bought thinking it was milk.

Atleast yoghurt tastes pretty much the same.