i said to J yesterday that i just want to be a boring person. i have come to terms with my boringness, & now that i have done so i wish only to embrace it unswervingly. i said to J, i just want to sit & read novels & knit, & hang out with my lady, & not be expected to talk about things.
am having another one of those moments like when sinéad o'connor sings, i see plenty of clothes that i like but i won't go anywhere nice for a while. all i want to do is just sit here & write it all down & rest for a while.
dear ossa, remember to make that song your leitmotif, to be played each time you enter the room.
i feel lately — & this is going to get pretty morose & self-important — that all this talk really is just SOUND AND FURY. i feel that i used to have friendships in which we would sit up talking all night & it would feel genuine, not showy. none of this philosphy. "philosophy" is the only word i can think of for what i mean to say. everyone wants to talk about themes & how things made them feel, but they don't mean "feel," they mean something else. they mean, This Is What I Have To Say, & i am suddenly not interested.