Last night I was clearing snow off my car at 11:00 in the evening before setting off to the city once more. I know it was eleven as the church bells were gently pealing out Westminster chimes as I climbed into the passenger side of my red Ford (the driver's side door being stuck shut after an unfortunate encounter with a slim jim wielded by yours truly).

I drove down to the city as a phone-call from Beautiful Girl unnerved me so that I needed to see her—she asked me to come. The drive down was absolutely beautiful. The roads were clear of traffic and the moon rose quietly behind me, illuminating a lovely landscape of snow and pine and mountains always looming in the windshield or rear-view. The moonlight was so bright it seemed that the landscape itself was lit, and I switched my headlights off and drove as a ghost by the light of the moon several times as I threaded my way through the mountains. Drove like a mad prophet jacked up on benzedrine, made a four-hour trip in a little over three and a quarter, burying my eighty-five speedometer several times on any flat roads I could find.

Arrived to a city mostly asleep. After the mountains it was odd to see anyone awake at two o'clock on a Thursday morning. Climbed the stairs of Beautiful Girl's apartment two at a time, and found her asleep on the couch by candlelight. Woke her and kissed and held and made love by the small flames and orange arc-sodium light bleeding through the windows.

Now it's mid-afternoon and she's gone for the time being. I'm in the city again, and as usual I have no idea what to do with myself. A severe lack of any desire to venture outside keeps me here, reading and drinking. Had two cups of supercoffee after abstaining for a couple weeks, and my hands are shaking as I write this. The street is wet, I can hear each car as they go by with the sound of old beat velcro ripping. It's snowing too, and I want to go stare at it for a while but in my current state I'm sure it couldn't hold my attention for more than thirty seconds. I'll continue to write.

I came down here throwing all possibilities of scheduled meetings and obligations out the window as Beautiful Girl and I needed to talk. We still do, but I am not too terribly worried. She harbors the bad habit of not mentioning things that bother her, only bringing them up in moments of weakness after they have fermented and festered for some time. Consequentially, I am left wondering what is wrong. I know her well enough to know something is wrong, but not what. Recently the two of us have been somewhat uncomfortable around each other, and I hope with this impromptu trip of mine we can find some sort of closure and continue on as the future intends. I love her madly, so this feeling that we both harbor drives me mad with confusion.

So I'm in the city once again. Only a week ago I was here, helping Beautiful Girl move into her new studio, which is right handsome. The heat pipes knock at all hours, and only half the outlets work properly, but it is lovely with decorative arches and hardwood floors and bay windows with the ripping sound of the wet street drifting through.

My mind is reeling with everything that I want to tell her, yet I'm not entirely sure what to say. Perhaps "I love you and want nothing more than to share a little spot of the universe with you" will suffice for now.

I think I’ll go watch traffic for a while.

My hands are still shaking.