All is light.

Everything has a fuzzy halo around it since a few hours ago, including the moon in the wake of last night’s rain. Fate and love and joy and money have all come together and fallen into my hands in the form of silver planes and magazines. Consumer masses, I never thought I would say this, but I LOVE YOU.
I drove home smoking and spitting monologues into a broken phone, because I could not wait the hour to tell. I may be able to go to Portugal, for free.
Oliver, I’m coming for you.
All was great tonight between dinner with chef and the conversations with Zach before and after. The first caught me in a rare absence of thought, and held a question that caused my stomache to burst with lust and flickering like I have not felt in years. The latter held a comment that could be my ticket, literally, out of here. Regardless of what happens after this my daydreams have been validated for a moment and that feeling is like no other.

In other news: I must see you.

Boy, you left me at the railway station
Penny in pocket, pen in hand
Thinking you were such a romantic
Such a Renaissance man

Monday morning I drank that last cigarette down slowly on the road by my house, knowing once it was gone I would start thinking again. All would be trouble. I cleaned last night out of necessity and tonight I will work for the same reason. Copying, scribbling, avoiding important decisions.

So many words just fell out of me, yet not one of them is appropriate for this place.

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I&W Alb.1, Tr.2, V. 4 L. 5-6 + V.5

Maybe its just all this falling down but I’m kind of upset. Or frustrated. All I want to do is leave this country, I hate the how financially difficult that is to do, and how I just don’t have the time. I wanted to just buy a ticket to Paris for my birthday, I calculated it out and I’d have just enough to make it there and barely survive if I worked the same hours I’ve been working and saved $100 a week. But the issue is I don’t have the money NOW, so my dreams go up like a heaping pile of crisp bills and gasoline. Fuck.

This isn’t something new, this is a desire that is constantly in me, hurting me, this desire to hop on a plane and leave. For once I may be able to do it but my job now doesn’t offer truly enough hours and I don’t want to be working 7 days a week again, this is all trouble. And as much as I want to find myself in a strange country alone, I really want someone to follow me. Maybe I should go to Portugal and find Oliver. Why France? Because it’s like the natural fucking pilgrimage of pastry chefs, they should build a giant napoleon or something for us all to march around.

My room is a disaster, my writing is a disaster. It’s been invaded by marine wildlife, it’s a fucking massacre of words. I’m feeling slightly manic and terribly restless. I need some coffee, rather, I need some not coffee. I need to stop thinking these distracting thoughts that send fantastic chills up my spine and make it difficult for me to think, to drive.

You, you did this to me, and I hate you for it. Hate in the sense that I want you around me all the time. Hate in the sense that I refuse to trust you as much as my mind is willing me to. Hate in the sense that all my creative inhibitions dropped and I can’t control what my hands are doing anymore.