I keep taking breaks on this project. I have to. I've got eleven pages down. Four pages to go, the creation is fleshing itself out, but I don't feel in control of where it's come from or where it's headed. I love this sort of writing. It takes critical thinking to find loose threads and weave them together. It's kind of like alchemy.
I didn't meet Empedocles. I'm worn out trying to puzzle him into something that makes sense. I worry about him, but I'm good worrying from a distance and with little contact. I took L— at noon instead.
She is still struggling. Poor thing has the world against her and she's swinging. Swinging. We dyed her hair a deep chestnut. It's fitting.
I need to rest. I've spent the last four hours trying to connect Scandinavia, granaries, geometry, carpentry, astrocytoma brain tumors, and identity with subtle elegance. It's not easy. But I've fallen in love with the humanness of Gaute Hogan. I get the Nelson sisters. I would have married him too.
I'm only posting because...