I think of you in pushkin.

I loved you; and perhaps I love you still,
The flame, perhaps, is not extinguished; yet
It burns so quietly within my soul,
No longer should you feel distressed by it.
Silently and hopelessly I loved you,
At times too jealous and at times too shy.
God grant you find another who will love you
As tenderly and truthfully as I.

--Alexander Pushkin

Hope Springs

I just love talking to my friend Hope. She works in New York and has been a huge supporter of my writing. Whenever I'm feeling down or irritated by the creature, I know I can call on her and she'll lift my spirits. She is boisterous, well educated, and knows just what to say to get me to laugh. She also seems dxetermined to get Amelia published. I need more people like her in my corner.

We usually spent all of five minutes talking work, then our discussion turns to literature. I'm in a dry spell reading wise, so I asked her for a few suggestions she might have on something good to read. She suggested A Prayer for Owen Meaney by John Irving, so I purchased it after work. But, typical me, I came home and picked up Silence of the Lambs, and started to read that. Such a classless creature. But actually, I find the writing style interesting. It should prove to be a quick read.

I have felt...stronger lately. Unlike the summer, which is quickly losing steam. Dusk fell before eight tonight and I went for a walk with Prince with a coat on. as I smoked, I watched the cigarette in my finger slowly wind its way down towards my fingertips. I blew on the ember from the outside, rather than puffing in, just to se how it would respond. The cigarette flared orange around the edge.

Where did the summer go? And why do I feel that it's still here, within me?

(PS: They're broadcasting from a tattoo parlor on Spotlife tonight. Oooh, fun!)