I wonder who will ever read this. I can't tell you what to expect, I don't know what to expect. Living in California has made a mess of things. I went for a walk in the bright sun, going into Berkeley buying CD's (Ugly Casanova, Wilco, Emiliana Torrini, and Neko Case for Dan). It felt good to get out of my apartment for the day. I'm seeing two days off in a row which always fills me with dread. What'm I going to do with all this time. Days ago I always plan for a writing fest but that never pans out. I only want to write at night before I go to bed when all I want to do is go to bed.

What The Werewolf Hotel means to me: I like the idea of hotels, many rooms like personalities, each having a key and each with their own residences. Werewolf seems pertinent with the altering aspects of the creature.

Been wanting to talk to B. all day today. I left his house so suddenly like an adolescent. One minute we're on his bed after midnight and the next I'm throwing my shirt on telling him I have to go because "I'm tired", an excuse that is more like a variable. All I knew is that I was (1) wanting to experience the walk home, (2) I really needed a drink of water and on the walk home I was craving orange soda, (3) if I stayed... I was afraid I guess that I might hate myself because I told myself I wouldn't sleep with him until I knew for certain he wasn't seeing anyone else.

I called him this afternoon to see if he wanted to get together later this evening. I was very worried that he wouldn't call me back. But he called and he had plans. He's hanging out with two friends of his after work and that was the end of that until I apologized for last night. He asked if everything was okay and I blurted out: "It's something I've been thinking about all day and have come to no direct nor evidential points. I've just realized that there are some things I've been meaning to tell you and I guess now is a good time." We may get together sometime tonight.

Here's something incomplete:

fell down with a face tortured like age
switching your care-free boyhood
in exchange for a Halloween mask devoted
to serious charges of a killing spree
eyes turning into cranberry juice, crying
like a cold statue of the virgin. I couldn’t
explain myself as I wanted to leave your bed
I guess I was afraid of inventions;
science has a way of recreating the mistakes
of the past. I was tired, craving cranberry
juice again on the walk home with shaky
knees my legs turning to gelatin and a
knobby slice of meat. Growing fatter
again like a bloated tick from laughing
foolishly at strange photos of large women.
Where is it again that you spill your secrets?
Are you not calling me because of some
shame hidden where I should’ve been lying?