More and more I sit in bed and think that I am melancholy. I don't want to think I'm sad, because I'm not. I'm actually very happy here. Maybe I'm just lonely. It is the holidays.
I don't miss you, but I miss those pretty little works of your lexicon. I love those poets of their own body. I am their weakness, and they are mine.
Twice today, to make up for yesterday.
5 days till I see the love of my life again. I love you, San Francisco.
I really need to study. Fuck. Final tomorrow.
"Moody" by Dave Brubeck, Young Lions and Old Tigers
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