I’ve been filling my free time with things to do, to spend as little time as possible in my little room on the hill, because that silence is too great, too heavy, too much responsibility for me. I’m still young is what I think to myself–it’s a Peter Pan complex and I know it, but I don’t want to grow up.

Ironically, the most free time I have is at work, where I amuse myself with poetry and prose until I realize and remember the joy of words, novels, flash fiction, and I can’t wait to move in with Jeanette, because I will then spend my days at Barnes and Nobles, reading and rereading voraciously.

In the meanwhile, my room is a mess: I have a green rice cooker in situated in the middle, a green wok and a pink knife to its side, my little red luggage, open, unpacked, and receipts strewn across. I should clean, but I don’t (won’t), because it is so cold I think my nose will fall off and I bury myself a little deeper under my three blankets.

I am loathe to buy books or poetry collections or fiction anthologies now, but one day, I’d like to own a whole bookshelf of Murakami, Garcia Marquez, Kawabata, Atwood, Bishop, and Stein. Maybe a bookshelf and a half.

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