The morning I had to leave the writing program at Massachusetts, I hadn't even packed my things. Our last class ended by eleven; I kept thinking what I'd been saying the whole week, at odd moments I'd say, "I can't leave." I kept thinking that, I can't leave. I can't go home
(
Read more... )
Comments 23
(The comment has been removed)
How are you?
Reply
(The comment has been removed)
Reply
Reply
Reply
"I mean, Christ, whoever's doing the soundtrack to my life has the worst possible timing.
But that's a very good song."
Reply
whatever I wrote about at camp
ended up being about you.
The idea of you has become like this very very small-time cult figure in my ten-person class. Jaron told me you were my muse - and I'm beginning to run out of rationales for why that isn't possible.
mitteny goodness I guess.
Reply
but its a nice thought. :)
and lovely icon, by the by.
Reply
Reply
You and me. I write a book of conversations with my mother. And you of airport experiences. Bliss. Bliss. Bliss.
Reply
Everything is bliss to a point; this is the upside of not being quite sane.
Reply
Reply
(I enjoy every single entry you write, and I feel like I should comment much more often.)
Reply
Leave a comment