Writing from an empty room, or a room emptying at least, thinking about how the towels are all still so wet, thinking about how it was with you, thinking about you, thinking now about how I still don't think much about you and wondering if that means I am sick or if I was just confused before, wondering now what that says about the way I love, wondering if I even know how to love or if I am just confusing love and romance, not doing any worrying, but knowing there is much to worry about.

This is good. This is something good. The room is full but there is nothing here. I keep telling people that but they don't believe me--- or maybe they do but I don't think they know what I mean. It's all out the door. It's all out the window. It's all buried in Golden Gate Park under the bench where the old lady is sleeping. It's somewhere we have been together. It's something about always being in love with somebody or the missing of somebody or the way it feels to be alone. Addicted but okay, in some ways reminding myself that nobody is as independent as they think, or as selfish as they feel, or whatever or however or whoever. Things just go this way sometimes.

In this empty room, there is a lack of silence. The way air moves, it has that affect on things. It also has that effect on things. It also can create suspect or maybe you don't even remember the way this room looks. It helps me to know how easy forgetting is when you are really good at it.