I read letters from Truman Capote.

"i love new york, even though it isn't mine, the way something has to be, a tree or a street or a house, something, anyway, that belongs to me because i belong to it."

A thick swarm of muggy, hot air made today a New York summer day.
I sit on the windowsill and sing, "At Last". Traffic, dripping air conditioners, and funneled air render my insecurities anonymous. It's a marvelous thing that we can be someone and yet no one in the same stroke.
My best friend is in flight on a brave adventure. Religulous-ly, I pray for her.

I wait for the rain. I wait for tomorrow.



What are you waiting for?



A long drive home from the country last night, from my uncle: in being lost, you find yourself.

Let's write a field guide to getting lost.