I want to say, to a very unlikely stranger, "Sometimes I remember something you did once, and it makes me have to be very careful to keep from crying, in a nice way." But, the right person is never walking by when I lean my head out over the window, and how clear would my words be from this height, anyway?

The walls of the halls have been painted to look like they're coated in margarine. The color is exactly right, and the texture approximates the little whipped-in air pockets nicely. My brain is very accomodatingly altering the smell of fresh paint to that of Parkay. It is pleasantly disgusting.

I'm unwilling to get into bed. I'm feeling broody and unsettled, I guess.

I want to tell you all of my secrets while my face is pressed against your sweater, and my words will be muffled, but you will make out enough of them to know what I'm saying, and everything will feel so much better. This is how churches should run their confessions, with someone soft and warm, wearing a nice dark sweater and smelling safe and vaguely of soap, who will let you hold on and get it all out while gently patting your back. Maybe there'd be blindfolds.

I think I'm giving myself a sore throat.