One of them, those days. I'm rapping my fingers on an oddly clean desk as if searching for a staccato Braille... There is no message here. A couple more nights in this dorm room, this shoebox (fond smile) before summer and you. But first, to disassemble.

Someone left me breakfast at my door. No name, just chai and crossaint. An art gallery, tonight. Jeff brought in wine to our Italian class composed entirely of underage students. Last night I had a hand wrapped cigar from a man in Denver who makes them on the side at his barber shop. Somewhere in the world, Bin is carrying my chapbook. Here, a swelling of love my beautiful girl...and delight in our Need. I want to go skydiving. Really. Ish. Maybe. I hope. How do you pack a cactus? Particularly one of sentimental value? Now, the humidity of oolong. (The trick, I've learned, is not to bring the cup to you, but the unabashed bowing of your mouth to it)