I'm in Toronto, and the wind here is not the same as it is in my
home. It's deeper, older. Somehow.

Um.

I talk to the wind, and offer myself to it.

I have my pseudo-Persephone delusions and I dream I live in the
open, sprawling palace of the winds. Except that it, too, is just 
a place, and part of me is actually always riding.

I live in my attic, mostly alone.

I have a small, loving dog who doesn't quite understand why I 
sometimes have to leave, and roll myself in the scents of other 
people and things, and come home smelling of cloves and sex, 
and my love for others who are neither small, nor furry.

There are people who call themselves plushies who have sex 
with stuffed animals, and dream of a perfect world where there
is soft, sleek fur and opposable thumbs.

I don't know quite where I'm going anymore, or who I am. I 
don't know what addiction means to me, what it should mean. I 
think that I am falling in love again.

At Escapade I had an epiphany, that I was built with love for 
everyone who needed, wanted it, longed idly for it on windy 
afternoons. It could mean that I'm just another needy slut with 
father issues. I don't want it to be that way.

Sex is scary, and open, but only when you actually think about it.

I may be beautiful.

I am neurotic, and lonely within my self.

There is more than one self.

I'm hallucinating again. Doves and mice and living things always 
in motion. I don't know what this means. Did I mention that love
thing? I am not anyone you should meet, unless, possibly, I am. I 
am smarter than I think, I am stranger than I wish, I am me. I don't
know who that is.

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