Smoking:Newport
Reading:First it was The Cat Inside, then Slaughterhouse Five, then Queer, now it's House of Leaves

Kate left today for sandy toes and tanned skin. For naps in the sun and glares on the pages of her paperback. For eastern waters with southern accents. High noon naps ease the relaxation process, I'm sure. Adventures with family and messages from a lover. Today I watched the car drive off the lot and teared up a little. An overwhelming sense of loss filled me and I was and am still not sure why for one like me who thrives on his thoughts and his notebooks filled with notes of work of both motifs of business and pacing around cubicles would feel the crushing blow of defeat at the chance to be alone with his thoughts and his literature. "C'est la vie," I say, "Your needs are not unfounded."

I've been plagued with sensitivity lately. A certain uneasiness comes along when you know that you'll cry when you kill a moth nowadays; imagine the terror of missing someone you love. It's driven me to my ranty, pissy, not-nice-to-be-around attitudes which I've laced with nicotine and insomnia. "What a bitch this is!" I say as I down my medication, or at least contemplate taking a couple. It does treat mood swings, by the way. Kate'd tell me to get some sleep and stop being so unhappy. Your advice is not unfounded.

I listened to my gypsy-punk and imagined you humming to the melody again.

I cease to feel restless when I'm with you. I cease the urge to take off and never be heard from again. I cease the daytime. I resume the nighttime. I'm sure that I won't mind staying my full shift at work now. Paycheck will be decent. I should pick up some overtime. I need the money, and the need, yes, not unfounded.

We'll go far, you and I. We've got it all planned out, and it's not hard to make a buck or two in this town, hopefully the same holds true for the rest of the country. The work gets hard but the dollars keep my sanity intact. It was a sad day when I realized the importance of money. The greed that came along with it, and the selfishness I would exude when given the opportunity to earn an extra buck here and there. What if my feedback ridden guitar got me far? What if my aleatorhic piano playing paid my car insurance? What if my electronic forays got me into college? That would be a dream! That is one, in fact, which is why I don't cease to strum the banjo or hum my melodies. My dreams are not unfounded.

Really, though, it doesn't matter what I do. It doesn't matter at all. Because I'll have help. And if I want to pick up an leave? I'm free to do it. And the freedom keeps me in place. I don't know if you meant to do that, but you did. We're amazing.

end transmission