Last night I made cinnamon raisin toast and coffee and took it upstairs to eat it in my kind little room with the door closed. I’m always more optimistic at night. Everything feels more clear and more possible.
There are these little stories I promised myself I’d write but have not yet. I’m thinking too much about first lines and then getting this flat feeling when I do, because the lines aren’t right yet, they’re not enough. I know when a line is enough by now, I know when it spins out and crackles, the way I like it.
P and I were talking about feeling sorry for people who don’t make stuff, who don’t have that weird burn inside them constantly, about how they are considerably less lucky than us.
This cat I’m hanging out with likes to push her head against water glasses until either they fall over or you take them away from her. All she wants in life is to snuggle with this glass and for it to snuggle back. Or maybe she wants something else, which I’m misunderstanding entirely.