I feel as though since months have passed by that I owe all the days a story. Like I should be writing novels of french cities and letters of true friendship and questions about whether we are going up or down.

I hope that I never love you and you never love me and then dear and then darling and then little prowler, if we could just never ever love one another we wouldn't ever have to worry about sadness.

I am trying to construct a history:

I want to know how the people move in relation to the rain clouds. I am trying to understand how the northern hill-towns were built, with houses that appear to be stacked one on top of the other, their occupant's secrets tucked between them. I want to hear the romantic twist of the occupier's narrative - the wealth and the grandeur, and I want to know the people's history - the struggle the struggle the struggle and the present. I want to feel the enormity of the place. I want to know the nations within. The tastes and the smells.

we've all shared thoughts

we've all shared thoughts. I've thought yours and you've thought mine and the line between whose thoughts they are becomes unimportant. Sharing those little thoughts is a little like sharing the same body. And a little of that is like sharing the same consciousness and a little of that is the same soul. There should be a name for that.