I think I died somewhere back there and forgot to notice.

You did too.

Jealousy makes so little sense, especially when it's so noisy. What a waste of time.

(Nietzsche, you're not allowed to talk about this entry or reply in any way. Just keep it to yourself.)

Muses and lovers are quite different things. I don't know why people insist that a muse is somehow more intimate or worshipful.

Being a muse isn't all it's cracked up to be either.

I wake to sleep again. If I held a job they would have fired me by now. I can't focus on anything. I sleep and sleep. I have mononucleosis, I swear to God I do, but I know that really I don't.

I just don't want to face it right now.

The bed is wide and white like a snowy field. I wash the sheets three times a week. There is nothing else to do.

I think of him and I have no idea who he is. Not really. But I want him. God, I want him.

( Email to Henry )

( Email to Henry Miller )

So.

We're trying the school thing again.

Mother never tells me what to do; it's as simple as a brochure left open on the kitchen table. She knows just how to get to me, with peculiar little buildings and a school with a funny name... and so there go my dreams of sailing the coast of Greece this spring in a little Chinese junk. It's just that sometimes, structured learning appeals to me, and she can sense when those times present themselves; my childlike dreams of firm pink erasers and pencil shavings and crisp autumn days.

I've taken a room (a nicely-sized room for what I'm paying, I suppose it's due to the size of the town) over a memorial laundromat. Yes, a memorial laundromat. I think when I die, I should rather have my name memorialized over a Texaco station or something equally ironic.

We shall see how Eupheme and I get along. Icaria and I are already friends and take long companionable walks together, though I haven't yet found its dance studio.

Tell me there is a dance studio or I may very well turn right around and go back home to Paris.

Current Music: "Rock Your Soul" -Elisa