February 4, 2015

T came to my office to chat yesterday, confiding and forward-looking, and very, very blond. As he talked, I felt a desire for him that was one third fire, one third appreciation, one third regret. Was shaken by that, and am shaken by it now, one more cruelty, one more gratuitous call heard only after it cannot be answered. He escaped unharmed.

The fireplace clock is stopped, and when I look at it, it shows different time, five after five for a long while, now five after six, as though it convulsed forward an hour when I was not looking, building up the energy for the leap.

Terrible yesterday, shattering and terrible. My good days are psychic constructions; my bad days are initiated by actual events.

Buying a phalanx of angel’s trumpets. Somehow that will make all things well.