I don't know how to feel. I think I may be feverish. I'm restless and discontented. I spent the night drifting from conversation to conversation, not caring enough about any of them. It's like that feeling of being in bed and unable to get comfortable, except that I toss and turn from person to person. When I found myself alone in my room at four in the morning, I was achy and numb at the same time. And lonesome. An hour or so spent with the windows wide open, in an icy cold room, sprawled diagonally across the bed, playing that one part of His Eyes, on the melodica, over and over, shifting the key each time... sometimes you stumble onto exactly what you need. After I managed to get the windows closed (the cold makes them stick), I shivered my way under the covers, and I was happy. Or at least the kind of worn out that looks like happy, and that was good enough.

I'm not sure what I'm trying to say. I can't seem to wrangle myself into a manageable state of order. When I look in the mirror, all I can see is my mood. At the moment, on top of being restless and discontented and feverish, I'm skeptical. And on top of that, I've got butterflies. Not just in my stomach, but everywhere, fluttering just below the surface of my skin...

p.s. I've been talking to you. I know that I've gotten ahead of you, but it's hard not to talk to you, when I have so much to say. And I like the idea of us talking to each other at the same time. And I like you.