My older sister told me to put Vicks Vaporub on the soles of my feet, and then I will feel better. So I'm laying here with socks and greasy feet, Vicks on my chest, a cigarette burning to my right and American Beauty playing in the background.

I have a terrible cold/something that has me down for the count.

My bedroom window is still wide open (stuck open) and the landlord has stopped taking my calls. I suspect the cold and my cold are somehow related. My mother is on her way as I write this. She's coming to gather me in her arms, to take me back to my psuedo childhood home, where I will convalesce for a few months in order to find my head.

I listened to Weapon by Matt Good last night on repeat. I missed that song. Music always sounds so much better in the car. Without a car, I don't know where I will hear what I love. Something to think about, I suppose.

Things creep into my mind, things I think I could live with. A little ramshackle house in the woods, steeping tea, and three ancient cats. A music room. An art room. A dark room.

Maybe after the Master's.
Bed time. Sick people get to sleep a lot. Someone should tell that to the insomnia god. Ha.