i've not been writing very often these days. something about the incessant rain and short days has made writing seem unimportant. lately, my days have been full of short flashes of hollywood suicide:

what if i jumped in front of this train?

what if i dove off of this building?

how many pockets full of stones would it take to send me to a watery grave at the bottom of the seine?

never before have these large windows seemed to taunting, so dangerous.

a portuguese book of disquietude, despite being studded with jewels of melancholy beauty, doesn't help matters much, either:

...and, leaning as if against the rail on a ship, i love you as ships passing one another must love, feeling an unaccountable nostalgia in their passing.