At gramma's house there is always icecream, and so I eat the icecream. It's like an afterthought. It's not as if I crave or desire the icecream specifically, I just find myself dishing it up after dinner and eating it. No desire. No pleasure. Why can I not turn off the icecream impulse then?

In recent weeks the timbre of my world has taken an edge. It is a very specific edge, that runs like a line, blurs at points, then gets hard and finally sharp.

Returning to Pullman. I keep returning to Pullman, and returning to Pullman and returning.

Mia says that she can tell from my aura that I am sympathetic to the artistic need that drives her. That she can feel a non-comformity in me that she knows will mean I would chuse happiness over comfort. There is something childlike in Mia, a self-centered-ness (transcending the abstracted meaning attached to the word through heavy usage, and delving to the literal meaning -- though the two are very similar, the difference is an important one. shed the baggage) that reminds me of myself at 15 or so.

Peter Paul and Mary singing on the teevee.