Don't think all ecstacies are the same.

11/2

I picture us in our new place--furnished with us. Little traces of you and me litter the room; a tripod in the corner, your socks on the floor. Our dishes sit in the sink and we sit on the bed. The smell of must pours out through the cracks and we easily replace two pillows with each others arms. We're comfortably perfect.

And I hate being weak.

This is worse than Fijian sharks; it's a commitment. But I ignore it, because all that speaks is you and those wild eyes. With you, everything just is.

Happy November. The days fall away and somehow I feel closer to you. I'm drawn to December, live for it. These days are happy torture... We are exploding.