am in the process of cleaning things up. my blog (therefore posting here temporarily). my bookshelves. in the belief that somehow, somehow, if i can find all the wintersons and put them together on the shelf everything else will sort itself out.

i hate waiting. have i said that yet? i immensely loathe waiting. and waiting for something that may or may not come - waiting to see if anything comes. like being dangled from a string. no, a wire, a wire running through you, that disturbs your sleep so you wake up every morning tense, and do everything you have to with that tension running through you, running under the current of everyday life.

i can't reply to your letter. it calls for sympathy and understanding (oh poor thing have you been busy well of course) and those are rather beyond me now. i want memory to slam you so hard you can't breathe when you walk in through the door. i want you to dream of me at night no matter how tired you are and wake up haunted. i want you to walk down the street with my eyes and start at shadows.

you see - if you were simply (simply!) very far away - things would be different. easier.