So cool, quiet, gray today. Wearing long sleeves. Had about 3 cups of coffee this morning but everything’s still sort of dreamy. The kind of Sunday where you don’t need to talk a lot. You just let things flow. Andy’s in the shower.

I have this fantasy about finding this articulate, cute French guy to be penpals with, and our correspondence would be so brilliant that we’d have to publish it and it would make everyone realize that writing isn’t dead after all. And plus I’d have plenty of money to be able to travel anywhere in the world I wanted. I could go back to Edinburgh this November and study the amazing light of late autumn, and be utterly inspired, and write something great from that. A novel or just a poem, it wouldn’t matter. But I’d capture something, and all the readers would be moved by the meticulous prose.

I feel like going out and drinking tonight. Taking a walk this afternoon with my headphones on, vanishing into the sound. For the first time in many days, at least at this precise moment, I’m content.