I can't write when I'm even the slightest bit unhappy, but weirdly enough, I managed to write a poem a few days ago in spite of that. I wrote it on my typewriter, so I will put it in a typewriter font; it looks wrong to me in Times New Roman or Palatino Linotype or anything else.

Machiavelli On The Veranda

Machiavelli, on the veranda,
Steeples his fingers and broods over the sea.
Intolerable to grow old here. Wrinkled eyelids, tiles, pillars,
The birds in the waxy bushes, the painful knees.
A heart attack, a crash to the cobbes, but the cobbles in Florence.
A dagger in the milling crowds of Florence.
There must be some escape from (tepid wine, pillars) age.
Machiavelli looks out over the ceaseless slosh of the bay,
Flicks the birds a morsel, and thinks of his prince.

so what lesson have i learned? no more running away. it's hard, but so is everything in life, even jumping on the trampoline, and you have to deal with it. as a writer, you only get one coincidence; any more than that, and you're being sloppy. as a person, you only get one or two-- whatever you want to call it-- and i've used one up already. i needed it then, but i am never ever going back to that again.

ha. so few people have actual real life-changing experiences, and i can't even use it for college essays.

going back to new york tomorrow.