On Hugo:

The further away I drift, the closer he gets.
The more unavailable I am, the more affectionate he is.

What's that Morrissey song?
Something about " the more you ignore me, the closer I get"

Being smothered in love like gravy
Holding me so tight
He knows something has changed inside me but he can't fathom
Because when I am with him, I am 100% the girl he wants,
pushing it all to the forefront, blinding with love
I want him to feel loved and needed.
Because he is.
But meanwhile, it's getting so hot out, and I'm getting so parched and thirsty.

It's fucking un-canny.

He never used to call me at work
just to say he loves me
just to say he misses me already
after we've spent 4 solid days together

I think, where does this come from?
I think, is this enough?
I think, it's getting better, isn't it?
I think, how long can I live like this?
I think, how much do I value freedom? Is it overrated?
I think, how will I do all the things I want to do, and not lose him?

I'll just do as I'm doing then, until I get a better idea.

And try to enjoy these halycon days while I'm in them,
ephemeral, ethereal, evaporating

*
Deal with the world as it is - not the way it was, or the way [you] want it to be.
- Cisco Systems' John Chambers

*
Matter is energy held by relation into a particular structure of tension; all "reality" is an interlocking hierarchy of rhythmically interacting structures of energy. One of these structures has the unique property of being aware of itself and so of the other structures. Being self-conscious, its place in the order of things is disturbed. Trapped, it wants to escape from or return to the lost unity and so generates new structures to place itself in the order of experience according to purpose.

Self-consciousness is an awareness of the self, here, and the other, there, so the first coordinate of these structures is spatial. Awareness of the self and the other is awareness of relation so the other coordinate is dramatic. Schematically (not experientially) the spatial coordinate is in the custody of art, the dramatic in the custody of the myth ritual.

- John W. Dixon, Jr.

Or is it that I am the kitty in Schrödinger's box?
And am I not supposed to know that I exist?
Am I a butterfly dreaming I am a girl?

Sometimes I read and it makes me wonder if I should be writing for money.

Like for these people.
What is that voice inside that pleads:
"No! Never sell out!"
which wars with the other voice inside me:
"You can do this. You can do this well. You should be paid for this instead of the soulless job you're doing right now"

I'd like to get into a steamy wordplay with these ladies:

Words make me hot

Nancy Chan:
Fictional diary of a Manhattan call girl

Kitty says: Let me out of this damned thing.