zesameri · zesameri · Apr 23, 2026 · Apr 23, 2026 · Apr 23, 2026 · Apr 23, 2026
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diff --git a/hoagie-roll-photos.html b/hoagie-roll-photos.html
@@ -0,0 +1,140 @@
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+  <meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=UTF-8">
+  <title>hoagie roll photos</title>
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+  <meta name="description" content="It's whatever you want to make of it.">
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+  <div class="content-wrapper">
+    <section class="writing">
+      <div class="top-bar">
+        <h1 class="header">
+          <a href="./secrets.html" class="simple-link">
+            <img class="header-img" src="assets/images/flower.svg">
+          </a>
+          <a href="./writings.html" class="simple-link">writing</a>
+        </h1>
+      </div>
+
+      <dl class="list">
+        <dt>Hoagie Roll Photos</dt>
+        <dd class="list__item">
+          <p>
+            The other day I was looking through my memory box. Came across these old photographs
+            of my family and me from when I was a kid in the summertime. They're from past summers
+            we all stayed in Aunt Sonia's New England vacation home. I never met Aunt Sonia. Aunt
+            Wendy and Joel were old wave artists and makers in the Boston contemporary scene. One
+            of their high class connections was Aunt Sonia. Sonia had two pieces of real estate in
+            Rockport, one of Massachusetts' coastal towns, the kind of place where you only packed
+            your beige Talbots slacks. You own a poodle mix. You live for the Volvo wagon suburban
+            aesthetic. Anyways, Sonia's first place was a historic witch hiding house, you know
+            Arthur Miller Crucible shit. Six year old me was not about this joint. Gave me
+            <em>the creeps.</em> The second place was this spot on the rocks. It was a guilty
+            yuppies' avant-gardener architectural hide away. Aunt Sonia would let the Hoo family
+            reside there for a few weeks in the summer, and in return, Uncle Joel would clean and
+            fix up the place.
+          </p>
+          <p>
+            So these photographs aren't like your normal photographs. Have you ever taken a panorama
+            on your phone? If you have, you probably would have made me uncomfortable twirling with
+            your phone as you captured the moment, like you were entranced with your lover, Mr.
+            Phoney. These photos are hoagie sized and linear, as if a director wheeled the camera
+            across the backyard, or out on the rocks and the seafront. It's sunny in all of the
+            photos, the light is warm and bright. The ocean has a glazed pottery blue, the wood of
+            the house is grey and gritty, makes your hands feel splintery. I smell the old sponge
+            smell of the carpet, the dusty people smell of the coaches, and the sweetness of the
+            sun baked books. I remember the time I got up in the night, climbed out of bed, took
+            the ladder to the third floor, slid the screen door, and walked out onto the balcony
+            to a view of waves, a full moon, and solitude. I know, I was a deep little six year old.
+          </p>
+          <p>
+            My brother Cameron and I were much younger than my high school cousins. Lily and Jasmine
+            would watch over us, and Toshi would hangout with his girlfriend. They showed us West
+            Side Story, and in return we'd surprise wake them up in the morning. My mom wasn't in
+            the picture then, so Aunt Wendy, Lily and Jasmine were like maternal and older sisterly
+            figures to us. My dad got to put his feet up, sleep, and listen to Jazz CDs in the
+            living room. We were there for a few weeks, but once Cameron and I were nine, we stopped
+            going to Sonia's.
+          </p>
+          <p>
+            Aunt Sonia has since passed away. Her kids have families who repair the place and keep
+            it company in the summers. My mom's in the picture. My brother and I are in college.
+            My dad lives with his girlfriend and their cats. Aunt Wendy and Joel divorced. He resides
+            in his bachelor art loft in Clearwater, FL. My cousins and Aunt Wendy trickled out to
+            the West Coast. Aunt Wendy was a hippy who went to California in the 70's when everyone
+            wanted to be Joni Mitchell, or Kerouac. Now they're all involved in the arts and are
+            gentrifying Oakland.
+          </p>
+          <p>
+            The Rockport that was doesn't exist anymore. And it does too. It exists in a memory.
+            It exists in a box where I keep all my paper memories. The photographs are hoagie sized
+            mirrors, reflecting a moment. Without us though, all of its context is lost. It isn't a
+            mirror of anything but a house and coast line. It isn't the sweet smell of sun baked
+            paperback books. It isn't the poking of little nails as you walk up the old carpeted
+            stairs. It isn't salt sprayed wood or Cameron getting poison ivy. It's an oddly long
+            photograph. The color is overly vibrant. If you're with people long enough, any place
+            could be filled with moments and sensations, but it's also never there. It's a memory.
+          </p>
+          <p>
+            The only place that I am of is now. My memory box is both a time capsule and a coffin
+            of who and where I was from. As much as I remember about the past the only thing that
+            exists is now and will ever exist is now. Outside of the photos in the box is my day to
+            day world. I have campus memorized, but Lehigh isn't a place I'm in. A lecture room is
+            more of a tool than a place for me, where I get the job done of being a student. There
+            are few memories of moments. Now I'm from my freshman hall. I'm the doodles in my notes,
+            the Laury Street anarchist cooperative house, Sokols, the members only, smoker
+            friendly bowling alley on Hillside. These are the places I am. Hey there reader, place
+            I am of now are these words where I am ever living and dying. All of these places are
+            dead and alive. If you're almost done reading this, remember to look up for a minute.
+            You're a big sack of meat and memories, dying and living too. The only thing you really
+            have is now.
+          </p>
+        </dd>
+      </dl>
+    </section>
+
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diff --git a/mice.html b/mice.html
@@ -0,0 +1,144 @@
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+<html lang="en" class="">
+<head>
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+  <meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=UTF-8">
+  <title>mice</title>
+  <meta name="viewport" content="width=device-width, initial-scale=1, user-scalable=no, minimum-scale=1, maximum-scale=1">
+  <meta name="description" content="It's whatever you want to make of it.">
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+  <style>
+    .shakespeare {
+      font-style: italic;
+      color: #a6a9ac;
+      margin: 2em 0;
+    }
+  </style>
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+            <img class="header-img" src="assets/images/flower.svg">
+          </a>
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+        </h1>
+      </div>
+
+      <dl class="list">
+        <dt>Mice</dt>
+        <dd class="list__item">
+          <p>
+            Blood is renewed rhythmically. Like relay runners on a track, cells pass batons back
+            and forth, from lungs to heart and outwards. Inhalation calls them back, resetting the
+            race. The breath purifies the river of life, expelling the body's waste in spent sugar
+            remains. The runners reset. Carbon removed, blood anew.
+          </p>
+          <p>
+            The quiet heart. Its left atrium expands, inviting oxygen rich blood cells into the
+            first room. The atrium contracts, opening the door to the left ventricle. Its muscles
+            wrap the walls, waiting for the signal to open the gates. Onwards. A network of blood
+            shoots upstream the tributaries of vasculo-muscular tissues, to the loneliest fractal
+            ends of capillaries. Oxygen is released, the body rejoices, the blood becomes acrid
+            with carbonic acid. The poor blood is pulled back through the veins and returns to its
+            heart through the right side, atrium to ventricle and back to the sweet lungs. Carbon
+            and oxygen swing in and out of the body like a lead and follow. Sugar and air for each
+            moment of life. Her heart beats steadily 369 beats per minute.
+          </p>
+          <p class="shakespeare">
+            How sweet the moonlight sleeps upon this bank! Here will we sit and let the sound of
+            music creep in our ears.
+          </p>
+          <p>
+            On the workbench lies a clear plastic shoe box connected to a system of machines by
+            two tubes. A gauge measures the amount of gas left in a canister of oxygen. A small
+            device attached to the tank controls the flow of oxygen to the tube. The last machine
+            whirls a solution into vapor, waiting to be misted in with the flow of air. The gauge
+            off, such that the shoe box is solely filled with air.
+          </p>
+          <p>
+            An assistant weighs the mouse. 21 grams. She is lifted into the box by the tail. The
+            lid is sealed. Her fine whiskers brush each wall and corner, bending against hard
+            plastic. She peers up at the assistant through the glass ceiling.
+          </p>
+          <p>
+            He switches the gauge, to administer 4% concentration of vaporized Isoflurane.
+          </p>
+          <p>
+            20 seconds. Her attention is diverted to the smell emitted from a small circular vent;
+            pungent and unpleasant. Pacing the room frantically, her body becomes excited, alert,
+            unsteady. She can't keep upright.
+          </p>
+          <p>
+            56 seconds. Concentration is lowered to 2%.
+          </p>
+          <p>
+            Lulled, she rests, drowsy, her heart beats 259 beats per minute. The assistant tilts
+            the box. The body tumbles to one side.
+          </p>
+          <p class="shakespeare">
+            Soft stillness, and the night becomes the touches of sweet harmony.
+          </p>
+          <p>
+            1 minute, 45 seconds. The body is equilibrated with the inhalant, 2% Isoflurane.
+          </p>
+          <p>
+            2 minutes 20 seconds. The assistant turns the gauge and vaporizer off, and the chamber
+            is filled with pure O2. The remaining inhalant exits to the waste evacuation system.
+            Removing the lid, he holds her warm body. He pinches her foot. No response. Like
+            threading a needle, he inserts a small cone into her nose, dispersing a light dose of
+            the anesthetic to ensure she stays sedated. He places her back against the styrofoam
+            board, pins her arms to the side, and her ankles to the base.
+          </p>
+          <p class="shakespeare">
+            Look how the floor of heaven is thick inlaid with patines of bright gold. There's not
+            the smallest orb that thou beholst, but in his motion like an angel sings. Such
+            harmony is in immortal souls.
+          </p>
+        </dd>
+      </dl>
+    </section>
+
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