In the heat, I find it hard to compose.


Sometimes I can almost see what it is she sees, when she looks at me. I don't quite get it; I don't quite understand what it is she's marvelling over, or what it is that makes her smile.

Someone asked me the other day, what it was I had done to her. She's happy, they said. You made her happy. How did you do that?


"You know, it's almost as if your journal has been following a pattern, the last few months."


"Yeah. It's like, 'I am searching for beauty, I am looking for hope, I am horribly depressed'.'"


"I think I liked your older stuff better."