When I can read my titles clear.

What is it about old things? I can't get enough of them. Cream fabric so transparent it only hovers behind the light, streamlines its rays. Seething with jealousy over girls who have all the time and money in the world to find and mend ancient dresses hurts. Acknowledging my material ambitions hurts. If I really meant what I have been meaning to say I would set my sights on owning nothing. Not even the gorgeous old Orthodox icon of the Prophet Elijah. By nothing, I really mean nothing. Or maybe just a flint and a knife. What good is nesting, anyway? Once a home in arranged there is nothing wise or deliberate in the meticulous re-positioning of delicate stuff. It's all just something nice to look at. I want it all, though. All the pretty things. You'd think New England would be good for this sort of thing, but Brighton is a far cry from seaside villages and drinking coffee on porches.

A city is a gloomy prospect when there is no escaping it. My greatest wish is for a way out, once in a while. The thought of the woods gnaws at my bones. Walden Pond, the Cathedral of the Pines, the Blue Mountains. A quick daytrip by car, a little too far of a walk. I look outside of my window and literally four dirty brick walls obstruct my view of anything else. Not a speck of green. Sometimes it is so bleak I want to blow all of my grocery money on a train ride West. Over and across the Rockies! I tried raising plants on our windowsills, but it is too cold for them. Our heater doesn't work, can you imagine that? It's already 40 degrees and all of the plants freeze to death. Good Lord. Not a single green things survives in this apartment. Please be thankful for the trees outside of your windows, friends. Even if the songbirds are too noisy in the mornings.

What am I doing in the city? When in this sweet world will I get to come home?