. . . big apple, 3 a.m., and my intern elina in berlin is sending me paragraphs upon paragraphs of god only knows what in estonian, which she calls “the secret language”

monty and i drank kratom seltzer and watched POINT BLANK (1967) . . . one of my favz

. . . since I apparently live in New York City now, I spend the hours between 1 am and 3 am reading Wikipedia while stoned off my ass on Monty’s couch, which is my bed here.

It is a peaceful time. I love it . . .

What is my life now? I wonder at it during the witching hours. It is not a bad life, as far as lives go. And: there is something beautiful growing inside me. I will simply let it grow.

Meanwhile . . .

. . . life!!!

. . . well!

i have a strong psychic connection with the belgian postal service . . .

this love of life makes me weak at my knees

. . . There were streetcar tracks and beyond them was the cathedral. It was white and wet in the mist. We crossed the tram tracks. On our left were the shops, their windows lighted, and the entrance to the galleria. There was a fog in the square and when we came close to the front of the cathedral it was very big and the stone was wet.

“Would you like to go in?”

“No,” Catherine said. We walked along. There was a soldier standing with his girl in the shadow of one of the stone buttresses ahead of us and we passed them. They were standing tight up against the stone and he had put his cape around her.

“They’re like us,” I said.

“Nobody is like us,” Catherine said.

aw lol :,)