Sticky, viscose sleep is dragging me down somewhere. I thought that oblivion had opened up underneath my doona this evening and would carry me straight down. You looked somewhat sad, which made me smile. 'Only the best people fight all obstacles in pursuit of happiness'. Oh, to do nothing. The biography of Shelley is TOO SHORT, which (tragically means a trip to Borders, alas!) and I am running out of books, even though I bought so many. This weekend, I want to see people, I want to read in the sun and I want to take glinting glimmering pictures of you, because I never want to forget and it's a perhaps superfluous and pointless attempt to capture your beauty on film. To remind myself that there IS some, to record it, to make this pointlessness count for something. I am slow and sleepy, I am sad. I still get sad because of you; which is very silly. That's all. I am so glad this is all over. Except, except, I expected life to rush back in again - like it didn't before and like it hasn't this time. I started to think I don't exist. And that my furniture has been waving me to sleep, that people are pretentious and no one realises they do it. Perhaps I will feel alive tomorrow.

Feeling:
Listening to:
Pretending:

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