I'm drinking tea, I'm flowing with Ester Drang, and I'm on the brink of eating cookies.

It was incredibly lovely today. The weather is softening into summer with graceful subtlety. Slowly the sun transfixes the grass, mystifying it into adolescent green and speaking warmth into the earth with phospherescent tongues.

So life is tempting me with insanity. Everything is so consistent and I don't know what to do with this on going pattern of existence.

Lately I've just been screaming for someone to love. And I know loneliness is beautiful and brilliant, but it's been almost 17 years of a void and even after an eternity you can't become immune to feelings.

Maybe I should feel bad for writing this and saying it where anyone can access my thoughts, but what's anything if its restrained by people...

I think I am totally infatuated with Alex. He is one of the few people I've been able to look at over the age of my life and really feel everything about him. I'm not saying I love him, no to love, but he's one of those people you know that if you could just sit down with and open them up and hear their heart you'd love them already. Besides I think he's liking this girl named Jill.

I don't know what the hell I'm doing but I know what I want. Someone that's plagued with a sincere brilliance, where it's not a feeling of inferiority, but a vast admiration. I've got to fall in love with a writer. It's not some romantic whim, it's a subculture that populates my soul. I know a few good writers, but it's not connection, it doesn't engender me, it doesn't make me want to shout "Yes! Yes! Yes!" in unison with some Dean Moriarty. And how do you even recognize something if it doesn't ilicit a tinge of emotion? I can't stand lethargy of the heart. It's live or die, feel or avoid. There's no mediocre level of passion. Being safe is being confined.