I have everything to say (procrastination is a writer's best friend) and I want to write it all in a frenzy. I listened to that song, the one that brought to mind winter and scratchy sweaters and a cozy fire and cold tempers, and I realized it's so in the past I can't be immature about it anymore. It's done it's over it's gone.

I was so awkward then, and he was lonely and now I regret not being able to comfort him to the fullest because of what you did to him. But not that much.

At least he was open with me, where you were/are not.

People here are meek day mice and loud night boors.

I am seeing connections I never did before on well worn musty pages and for once I feel like I am learning in class. Shock amazement awe. I know. Still unable to prevent naps in class.

Eating brown rice and salmon with tomato sauce. I'm not even hungry.

Je vais voyager a Paris pour le week-end et je suis tres excite!

Don't think, he said, just write, and I am doing/going to do this. Doesn't even matter what will come out; crap will reign supreme. Good luck to my reader(s).

My roommate is an amazing writer. Such a way with words; they are written raptures.