the Thing continues unfurling itself. it could very well be that Thing of which the poets sing. even if it isn’t, it’s certainly not a one-sided thing. we say very sweet things to each other. and i actually think the found man is suffering more than i am—he’s called me in the middle of night—i believe i’ve haunted him more than he’s haunted me—and i have great powers of austerity on my side.
it’s so nice—it’s bordering on miraculous—to be the one who gets to suffer less and to make less of an ass of itself. that being said, our glorious reunion seems to be getting more and more difficult to schedule and i don’t have a lot of patience with logistics. not ever. and certainly not when i feel like this….i mean, some powerful chemicals have been released into my brain. my brain has apparently cooked up its own drugs. i suddenly have the energy to unpack boxes and i find myself writing to old friends. i should be enjoying this all more than i am. and i do try to enjoy it, and at times i succeed, but i’m just so much better at suffering.