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Yesterday, I saw a dog obstacle course, visited the Museum, and read a book (The Great Gatsby, which was entertaining). Today I am reading A Month of Sunday's by John Updike. I can't decide whether he's a better poet or novelist. I'll have to read more of his novels to make a fair decision. I'm very glad to be alive, and I hope that you are, too. I want to talk about Blake with someone, and The Bohemians. I miss my best friends: one is in England, and the other Montreal. How very cosmopolitan of them. I have reached a crude inner peace - maybe with an invitation from Huxley - that is a very honest maturity and a solemn desire to live virtuously. I am taking a Shakespear course in the fall; thine is the glory, “He will swallow up death in victory”, Isaiah 25:8. I am very anxious for my upcoming birthday. I want to go to Ottawa or Toronto to celebrate. My cat is good company. She has a crackley meow. She is the Phyllis Diller of cat meows, like we just got her off the smokes. At my new job, no one knows that I smoke. I feel it to be innapropriate and insignificant information. I also fear alienation, as it is a vegan/vegetarian restaurant where health matters. I am a chef there. Today, I worked at the retirement home, and I read and studied most of the time. I made supper, which was good. Now I'm going to finish Updike before I go see Superman in three dimensions. Also, I might do a load of laundry.