Last night, laying in bed with Maria, I thought how strange it was that Diego and I haven't spoken in over a year. He's like a brother to me, he brings me so much joy—his cool, sensitive intellect, his warmth, his probing. He is dramatically inspiring, loved by everyone really, but still a wild loner.

Today he sent me a long e-mail about how he'd dreamt of me last night. I was living in a room partitioned with sliding glass doors, on which I'd posted up tinted glass stickers with etchings of photographs I'd taken, and faces of people I loved.


I should get back to compiling a manuscript to send out to Poetry contests. There are so many bad first books of poetry out there, why shouldn't mine be among them? "For Diego, Drinking Alone" would definitely make the cut.


No luck finding a spot to live, yet. Night from the basement.