I feel hypocritical saying I want to write long letters. I do, I just can't seem to bring myself to. I know a beautiful girl who makes the most ridiculous faces in all her photographs. She probably doesn't mean to but she either chews on her lower lip or her smiles always look artificial. Of all the things I will miss once the next two months end, I will miss spending winter afternoons, sitting on the sidewalk, smoking with N the most. It's engrained so deeply and perfectly in my mind I probably will want to paint the scene when I'm 60. I'm done liking white flowers, I've decided I want my flowers with colour. One thing that I really wish I had the time to do is gardening. Given my way I'd grow yellow flowers the size of a baby's head and tiny purple blossoms. I want obscene shades of red and a violent orange. I want a garden that looks like a gunshot. Unfortunately, since this would require tending to during the day it might just forever remain a pipe dream. However much I love the idea of dirt and green velvety stalks with delicate tendrils, mornings are not a big part of my activities. If not gardening, perhaps I will get some scratchy paper and a bottle of green ink and practice my cursive writing. I will listen to Leonard Cohen all throughout and grow old learning his words by heart and taking them far too seriously. In so many ways the things that I choose to do are completely wrong for me. I love the very notion of carefully chosen words and images becoming the substance my bones are made of. My hair has grown long and secretly I itch for hacking it all off myself. My old bones will be a moor of deep blues and melancholy greens.