perhaps its the weather. but whatever it is, something is stirring within my being. i sat and wrote a three page letter to no one, or maybe to myself, this weekend. in it, i wrote:

perhaps it is this dis-ease that will become my poetic tension. a tension not to hold in place, but that will set in motion. set in motion my mind, my pen, and eventually, my heart.

i picked up Kafka's Metamorphasis this same day at east village books. i'm on the verge of securing my own apartment. i feel the vibration change.