Tom looks a little like he has wandered out of the nineteen thirties, and I think perhaps he would be perfectly at home there. Everything is strangely different & hostile, people are, eyes glazed over. Glazzies. I almost just typed that.
Oh, stretching intentions & hardened resolve. It smells like smoke & it smells like you. It makes it so much harder, but then I don't think I ever said no before. And I can't help but think this is a good thing. A heart- head- splitting decision that rips my insides out & pastes them outside where everyone can see, I am sick, sick that I cannot write, that everything rings so hollow and false. But my whole grounding is gone, and I have to piece this together again? Or I think I shall push it aside for now, that this is too important for now, for this. Pretend it isn't happening.

(In other news: yay!)

Feeling: cold. and apprehensive
Listening to: dogs barking; richard and judy
Pretending: it'll work (that there is any point at all, chasing fleeting happiness)

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