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DN24. R6. The metal numbers are still there. Clinging faithfully to the wooden electric post, tacked down with more fervor, probably by someone tired of the defeated, dangling look of them, rather than the city. My gas station cup of Dr.

I have a cat, and I miss him. I should be reading a short story for one of my classes, and I have a half-eaten burger in front of me, but I am thinking, only, of my cat.

You sit in the middle of your college cafeteria—top floor—and things become very apparent to you, very quickly.

To be quiet more. Be angry less. Watch shows and read books and listen to music people recommend to me, and not forget. Cry, without anxiety, embarrassment, fear or shame. Trust. Bite at the skin of my lips less. Sing more.

I have this "thing" about finishing chapters that sort of changes the experience of reading for me. I don't like to quit in the middle, or after the first page, even if it's a book I hate. I have to finish it.

Grief, in all forms, in all ways, changes you. I am not afraid of spiders—they crawl, and they creep, and they dangle from their long lines of gossamer webbing, and they watch me.