The snow is making me weird and sentimental, and I don't know why I do it. It's alright, it's Sunday and last night I was crying over Queen Elizabeth (the first). I don't know, I'm in a strange mood. In a couple of hours we'll get up up and go to the book fair for a while before running away to a movie or the park or somewhere. I can see by the math that today will be a good day, but I still feel funny and that has to go away on its own.

Sometimes I wonder if I'm a different person than I was before, or if I was just mistaken. There should be a booth you could climb into that measures you inside and out and gives you a reading of your true worth, because sometimes it's hard to tell. We could go by other people, but I think each of us have had at least one or two that make the whole thing seem hopeless. Anyway. Anyway, anyway, anyway. I saw a photograph of a train station in Prague and, sidelong, it looked just like my imaginary wall of lights that exposes everyone's true feelings. It's nice to recognize things that don't exist.

This doesn't get anywhere. There are things I want to write down to remember, but I can't get at them when I'm in here, because my memory is opposed to the whole thing. Basically, things have been good. I don't know, the people around me are good and quick and surprising and reliable. My dreams are epic and frightening, but they end well. There's snow and I'm not scared of Christmas anymore. I'm figuring out how to ignore all of those same haircuts everywhere, and next I'll work on those same eyes. Oh, this doesn't make any sense. I should get out of here before it gets worse. I should dial time back an hour and start over.