I have so many pending emails to write. I seem to be unable to write anything these days, especially here. There is no one thing that I want everyone reading this to know. It seems to be inadequate to say that I'm 'happy.' I woke up and I could feel the residual man-made gunk in my insides and little else. I'm happy internet, but I still have these mornings where nothing touches me for a while. The issues here, internet, are profound psychological issues. This is no ordinary ennui. This is a soft ache in the dust of my bones, a passing spasm at the base of my skull. But then I become happy again and it takes so little for me to be happy nowadays.
And so it passes.
I'm not writing here yet internet (don't take this as me writing here, I have lots to tell you and I'm not going to do any of it now), so hang on for a while. I do however want to tell you about this girl with dark brown marks down the inside of her elbows, which look like dried up clay. She has this habit of unconsciously running whatever she's staring at or focusing on between her thumb and index finger while talking and she stopped me today in the women's restroom to ask what's the most satisfying stationery to steal from the store (where they just give it all away anyhow) while running her fingers over the orissa gold around my neck.
I slept for 17 hours this Monday and I finally felt like myself again. Geez, it's really been a while.