i nearly threw the blender against the wall because it stopped working in the middle of smoothing my drink. instead, i yelled and cursed and banged things and punched the counters, then i unplugged the machine, re-plugged it and it worked. my drink was very very good. i broke down, however, half way through Bowie singing Sorrow, even though it's not a sad song. i cried like i haven't in a while and i felt a bit better but also tired and slightly dizzy. i stepped outside onto the roof with my coffee, sat on the exit step and the sun warmed the left side of my jacket and it was delicious and i grew hungrier for something so i smoked three cigarettes one after the other and thought of this morning as an episode of sorts and thought of writing and being pacified and thought of  the wonderful things Hemingway wrote about Ezra Pound in a Moveable Feast and i thought of you.
how you're never coming back to me and how she's never coming back to you and how you must love her and adore her in her beautiful ways of being and how much i want you to love me and it will never be. i wondered how we will make it out, the both of us. life holds us in the palm of its hand. i always wanted to fall in love forever. more than anything, i wanted the taste of the eternal and i thought it would be delivered as a hero, as my savior, like peace sweeping up a battlefield, the ****** and gore erased. i thought i'd be graced one day. then i could die and i wouldn't mind. but today, everything appears distanced and i know the next few years will hold hardships and be far from simple, and something weak inside me inflames and cries about it. i don't want to go through with this anymore but i don't want to die. i don't want to do anything other than be held in the palm of life with you, our own palms pressed against each others.