I've not been eating much. When I do I force myself, because it seems that I ought. I do get hungry, I suppose, but nothing is quite what I want. I do want to drink, however. Coffee, or black or detoxifying or calming tea, my father's brand of whiskey, good Scotch, strangely floral gin and tonics. Fuelling the machine is tedious. I want to push ( Read more... )

I've walked all of South Philadelphia in the past week. Although you'd never expect it, there are temples and shrines hidden there: statues sheltered, incense and candles burnt, and coins, flowers, songs, cigarettes, oranges, and, in one case, orange soda, offered to the Virgin, and to saints, and to goddesses whose names I don't know ( Read more... )