I remember that Carrie Fisher wrote in Postcards From the Edge, "Finally, my surroundings are starting to match the climate of my soul," or something like it. She was talking about traveling someplace miserable and wartorn after living in so much beauty. I don't remember where she was either way. I never finished the book anyway, badly as I wanted to.

The rain is never going to cease in Corvallis. I know better now why I moved out here. College and money the number one excusing factors, and I wonder that they've led me to pander, to live entirely on the surface, to work myself into cynicism and utter exhaustion and kill the last pieces of my soul.

I never wonder at the rain here as I did in the desert, but it gives me pleasant aches. It's too much to have to cry or work on a sunny day - might as well follow the storm.

He shook me awake from the nightmare, and I don't think I can ever return the favor.

I only worked for two months sorting and cutting onions, or dipping them in onion-ring batter, and it made me feel so inhuman and anonymous in so many ways, but on days like this, I would belong there. I don't want to make my pain conspicuous; I wept for part of every shift, and I wore a surgical mask; machines were loud enough to drown out my screaming.

I don't know which is going to kill me first: my foolish optimism or my sheepish paranoia. I've got to learn to do a little more than write.

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