So I surveyed my desk; the stacks of half-finished papers, the mess of pens I hardly use, the still unfinished letter. I took up my pen to write in that blasted thing, then put it down again.

I sat on the floor instead, and looked around my room. My nest. The books; LKY's memoir next to the Batman, Sophie's World stacked with my Tang poem collection. A print of a girl in a red wedding dress, an explosion of moths on pastel green, and a mirror hang on the walls. The dust is a fine carpet.

And suddenly I hear myself ask: Who am I performing for?

The one face that comes to mind, that face will never see me. .

On an almost related note, I refuse to come near this blasted thing until I'm sure. That will be approximately 16 days.

Good night.