2003-10-19 / 2:22 p.m.

I'm not not writing. I'm just not sharing. Not right now. Not even as much as Shereen with her ever so thoughtful emailed passwords... I felt special! I've gotten stingey and all the words are mine. Except these.

I write daily. Been doing the fish a scrap of parking ticket out of his console to scratch out an image I got off concrete and lightbulbs, or ivy and sunlight; or tiny burns from a blowtorch-fired oven. Grocery lists make poems and furniture inventories are fantastically interesting.

The missing was a problem last night. I didn't know what it was and finally, as I fell asleep, realized it was that. I'll fix it soon, I think. I hope. I want to see you. Always a little and right now quite alot; I want a hug. I can't write that out. I steal dialogue and sketch scenes and I can relive, I can honor, I remember, but I can't touch it.

It's hot in here now and I want my closed blinds and cold pages.

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