October 16, 2003
It smells beautiful here in October. Even after the leaves have discolored and fallen. I'm in the mood for a monologue. Perhaps some Low and a serving of The Interpretation of Dreams. Maybe even mint tea and Dostoyevsky. I'm open to new possibilities. My teeth are chattering, but I can barely hear it over the clicking of the keyboard. Nothing will come together in my mind. I can't get it to come out right. But I can settle for wrong. I don't mind: just don't let me look back from next week. Next month. Next year. Never. I'm begging you.