I could be in love with someone like you.
And the weight of all those deaths piles up on top of you and it's like carrying a brontosaurus on your back while dodging eight lanes of LA traffic . . . .
For whatever reason. Call it October. Call it the three month mark, or what you will; I am desperately homesick. I miss my room, my cat, Raleigh, House in the Horseshoe, Beggars and Choosers, the beach, everyone, every one.
I don't have long to write. I have to leave the office. I don't have internet at home right now.
I'm writing a sonnet.
I'm writing in iambic pentameter.
I'm melancholy. So much so that I'm quoting David's Redhaired Death and listening to Tori Amos.
Blah.