Last summer I told Michael that I wanted gifts that were stolen, so one thing he gave me was a stethoscope that he'd stolen years before. I want more than anything to listen to my heartbeat with that stethoscope and hear what sounds like the click of a metronome. A metronome set to largo in the winter and vivace in the summer. Or who knows? I don't know enough about my own heartbeats. I don't even know what kind of blood I've got.

I don't know how to use this anymore.

In a few hours I'll be siting in a darkish room waiting for my second birthday of the year to begin. It will be fine, it will be fine. I'll be pretend serene until it takes. I'll be early and hear some songs to make me easy, sitting in the corner pretending to read. I'm forgetting, a little, that today isn't my real birthday. I'm forgetting that it isn't still the same day, stretched out over too many hours. For years I thought that I was born in the morning, and when I found out I wasn't it broke my heart a little. Now I don't mind at all. 6:51 is a good time at either end.

p.s. I hope it's alright, I hope you're alright.