I've been listening to The Twilight Singers the past couple of days. A mixture of hopeful romantic songs that are really about heartbreak and impossible women. Impossible men. But this newer song has phone messages recorded in it, and I love that. I don't know why. Maybe I'll mention it to Craig sometime. To use one of my manic voice messages in one of his songs.

A photo of one of my rooms.

The couch waits patiently for new cushions, and the living room lamps bought at thrifts stores beg to be lit every evening. So, I do. Then I spend all my time in the kitchen, writing in a fever.

I inadvertantly cancelled the visit from a northern friend for next week. I don't know what I want from that, so I figure it's just best to leave well enough alone. Or maybe I just know he doesn't have what I want.

Feeling the oppressive weight of living, again. Plans for the future are running the gamut my mind has become, again. Sometimes, it's so hard to just tell my mind to shut the fuck up, you know? I take photographs that I don't particularly care for and write shit I know will sell, but dislike.

The pursuit of happiness. Just because we're allowed to chase doesn't mean we're going to catch. My personality changes with the darkening of the sky, things become impossible. Not like during the day when the light is coming through the kitchen windows and I feel like everything is laid out before me, waiting to be picked.

It's ok. I just can't sleep again, that's all.