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he'll never take you to giddy stratospheres

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November 11, 2007 | 03:42am
Mood: tired
Music: Arctic Monkeys - 7

When I'm in the bathroom, just about to step into the shower, I look at my palms. In total, there are ten neat little crescents, five on each hand. I hadn't realized I'd been clenching my fists so tightly. I hadn't realized I'd been clenching my fists at all.

After my shower, I change into a clean pair of boxers and lay myself down in bed. As I stare at the blank wall, I occasionally hear muted bursts of laughter coming from the living room.

The laughter dies off somewhere around two.

Sleep doesn't come until after three.

I awake screaming at six.

Yesterday Kara and I made some ridiculously amazing blini. I'm talking really outstanding. And after seeing her pictures from Germany/Austria/Italy/etc I'm really eager to study abroad. Or, fuck, just to go to Europe (read: Russia).

My novel is going nowhere fast. On the other hand, I have the rest of the novel outlined (like, f'realz). It's a really emotionally draining story to write. That's my excuse for not writing and I'm stickin' to it.

I recently reread a short story in French that I first read about a year ago. I didn't really understand much of it last year, but I totally understand everything now. Fuck, why can't I be this good in Russian?

"Le souvenir de ce temps où chaque jour était la même journée, une seule journée de l'existence, longue, brûlante, où j'avais appris tout ce qu'on peut espérer de la vie, l'amour, la liberté, l'odeur de la peau, le goût des lèvres, le regard sombre, le désir qui fait trembler comme la peur."

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