It's been too hot outside to leave the house to go downtown to the museums and stand among Park Blvd. and it's been too hot inside to focus on anything more than just a few of Jean Stafford's short stories or a few of Robert Lowell's letters or a few of Wallace Steven's poems at once and instead I have been watching movies (all of i <3 huckabees along with my mother's nurse) and thinking it would be better if I were in love and it would be better if I were five hundred miles north and it would be better if I were better and didn't fit all nine criteria in the DSM-IV for borderline personality disorder and didn't have to worry about what might happen when the five hundred miles north comes down here to me and when I fall in love again.
I'm worried for him and I'm worried for his head and heart and my own head and heart and now there are things between us. All of everything aside from closure and steady ground.
What is happening?