Output

Well, S. got my long paper letter. Also, I sent a long email to her first thing in the morning saying a bunch of stuff. All triggered off by the "forgiveness" thing. Chatted briefly at lunch hour with S. Not a big reaction to all that I said in either the letter or today's inpromptu message. But a kiss to me at the end. So, who knows. Maybe I am struggling simply to get back to the surface of all this, like some struggling swimmer far underwater. Maybe if I ever do get back to the top and grab a gulp of air, then I can walk away. Maybe, maybe. Don't know.

I guess she loved me so strong, if very briefly, that I can't let go. I am a rat in a Skinner cage, hitting the button again and again, waiting for the reward that once was produced so readily.

Steak for dinner. And salad.

87.1 kilos.

Pictures of Heather's baby. Healthy little fellow. In a proper crib or bassinet thing, unlike poor Lucas.

Jackson Browne, Pretender.

Writing today at work. Writing about the fall of Preston into depression, or into the verge of it, the prenumbra; have to wait until later to see if it was any good, but it worked in one way: thinking so hard of that feeling of the hollowness of everything I managed to create it within myself. Congratulations Rick.

Called Christopher to pass on the complaints from the nice lady renting out a basement suite to him. He was groggy from waking up.

Want to figure out what State S. is getting married in so I can buy road maps so I can drive her to her teaching hospital afterwards in either Illinois or Alabama.