Things, of course, are jumbled. The crickets are singing (or is it calling, chirping? what is it that crickets do?) The housemate is listening to the Smiths and talking.
Ah, the melodrama. The sweet and melancholic depression of a tragic heroine. I am revelling in the adolescent sweetness of it all.
Walked Pogonip with the Contessa. We tell stories. Stories of our petty/oh so important dramas du jour. The views were sweeping, except Monterey was gone in a haze. I wonder, is it there if you can't see it? Was it out for lunch? Can a peninsula just up and leave? Can your turn your heart off while it breaks? Do you miss me as much as I miss you?