2001-08-03 || 11:51 a.m.

|| end of week 2. ||

i feel like a string of people keep stepping up to turn the key in my back, winding me up so that i can never slow to a dizzy standstill. mondaytuesdaywednesdaythursdayfriday i am out of breath and trying to keep track of what day it is. bowling and watching movies with elka and staying up late on the phone and playing trivial pursuit at melissa's and tonight: chef jia's and hopefully getting pissed and passing out at scott's. always moving. always on the freeway driving a little faster past the stretch of highway that makes my heart thump and my knuckles turn white on the steering wheel. walking faster on san pablo. wandering around telegraph in circles at lunch time because i don't want it to stop. i am consuming and running out of breath. i am reading and talking to the cat and holding the phone in my hand picking a number to dial. i have come to expect being checked up on: phone messages making me promise that i am doing okay, hesitant pauses when i say really. i am fine. it is just the night time. after the lights have been turned out and meow meow has settled at my feet and my curtains have been arranged to block out the yellow of fluorescent street lights: phone in cradle head upon pillow ceiling fan whirring i am alone and inhale exhale wishing for fast sleep so that i don't have to think about how lonely it is (extra pillow placed lengthwise beside wall to take up empty spaces. there are commercials of couples walking around lakes, head upon shoulder. he writes and says he misses me and i don't understand for a few seconds why it has to be this way. spare keys on the kitchen counter rather than in his pocket.).

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