its morning again and i'm watching wayne pounce leaves outside the kitchen window, the tiny bell on his collar ringing with every jump.

i called billy yesterday evening in a manic, terrified craze last night, praying he'd be able to help me find adderall, because, lets face it, as it was nearing 630 and I still had made zero progress on any of my papers, i was beginning to fall into an existential crisis about the intrinsic worth of my own person, and was illuminated more by the sight of his familiar silhouette leaping over the railing of my side porch than i expected, and even more excited to learn that he, too, will be returning to state college next fall.

"yes!"  he smiles, inhaling from the half of a cigarette he has left "maybe then i can finally realize my life long dream of dating you."

i laugh, lingering in a hand hold in parting.

spent the rest of my evening absorbed in words, with a short smoke break with conyers to break up the monotony, and when i got home, i proceeded to stay up til 4 in the morning, purely absorbed in "if on a winters night a traveler," which, i daresay, has become my favorite novel, of all time.  there are so many things i can, and will, quote from its magical pages, but to start, what follows, albeit long, is the most perfect description of myself i have ever encountered.  am i truly as timeless as characters from literature?  or was this written for me?

thats the trick about books, they could very well be.  written for you.  

"the kitchen is the part of the house that can tell the most things about you:  whether or cook or not (one would say yes, if not every day, at least fairly regularly) whether only for yourself or also for others (often only for yourself, but with care, as if you were cooking also for others; and sometimes also for others, but nonchalantly, as if you were cooking for yourself) [...] observing your kitchen, therefore, can create a picture of you as an extroverted, clearsighted woman, sensual and methodical, you make your practical sense serve your imagination.  could a man fall in love with you, just seeing your kitchen? [...]

There are countless things that you accumulate around you:  fans, postcards, perfume bottles, necklaces hung on the walls.  But on closer examination every object proves special, somehow unexpected.  Your relationship with objects is selective, personal, only the things you feel become yours:  it is a relationship with the physicality of things, not with an intellectual idea that takes the place of seeing them or touching them.  And once they are attached to you, marked by your possession, the objects no longer seem to be there by chance, they assume meaning as elements of a discourse, like a memory composed of signals and emblems.  Are you possessive?  Perhaps there is not yet enough evidence to tell:  for the present it can be said that you are possessive toward yourself, and that you are attached to the signs in which you identify something of yourself, fearing to be lost without them.[...]

The arrangement of the furniture and the objects on it is never symmetrical, either.  the order you seek to attain (the space at your disposal is limited, but you show a certain care in exploiting it, to make it seem more extensive) is not the superimposition of a scheme, but the achievement of a harmony among the things that are there.

In short, are you tidy or untidy?  Your house does not answer peremptory questions with a yes or a no.  You have an idea of order to be sure, even a demanding one, but in practice no methodical application corresponds to it.  Obviously your interest in the home is intermittent, it follows the difficulty of your days, the ups and downs of your moods.

Are you depressive or euphoric?  The house, in its wisdom, seems to have taken advantage of your moments of euphoria to prepare itself to shelter you in your moments of depression. [...]

lets have a look at the books.  the first thing noticed, at least on looking at those you have most prominent, is that the function of books for you is immediate reading; they are not instruments of study or reference or components of a library arranged according to some order.  Perhaps, on occasion you have tried to give a semblance of order to your shelves, but every attempt at classification was rapidly foiled by heterogenous acquisitions.  The chief reason for the juxtaposition of volumes, besides the dimensions of the tallest of the shortest, remains chronological, as they arrived here, one after the other; anyway, you can always put your hand on any one, also because they are not too numerous (you must have left other bookshelves in other houses, in other phases of your existence)[...]perhaps for you each book becomes identified with your reading of it at a given moment, once and for all.

Unlike the provisions in the kitchen, here it is the living part, for immediate consumption, that tells most about you.  Numerous volumes are scattered, some left open, others with makeshift bookmarks or corners of the pages folded down.  Obviously you have the habit of reading several books at the same time, you choose different things to read for different hours of the day, the various corners of your house, cramped as it is, there are books meant for the bedside table, those that find their place by the armchair, in the kitchen, in the bathroom.

It could be an important feature to be added to your portrait; your mind has interior walls that allow you to partition different times in which to stop or flow, to concentrate alternately on parallel channels.  Is this enough to say you would actually like to live several lives simultaneously?  Or that you actually do live them?  That you separate your life with one person or in one environment from your life with others, elsewhere?  That in every experience you take for granted a dissatisfaction that can be redeemed only in the sum of all dissatisfactions?"

this is where i'm beginning.  i feel this weekend will be a turning point for me.  

and so begins, day two, of chain smoking manic adderall induced philosophically rambling frenzy state.

sigh.