I am a lonely painter: I live in a box of paints.

My room is looking emptier and emptier by the day. Tonight I'm painting and yours is finished. I have five billion dollars worth of laundry to do tomorrow because I haven't put a wash through the cycle since the third week of November and this time I'm actually running out of underwear. I have two days left in Chelsea Hotel. I have an exam on Thursday that I should really be studying for right now, but I'm not because I can only concentrate on one thing for any extended period of time and it's not Forms and Techniques in Poetry. Victoria is so cozy at Christmas time with all the lights in the trees on Government street and the fake pine branches festooning the rafters in Market Square, but you're not here to frolic with me through cobblestone squares and alleys all dressed up in their electric yuletide costumes. A week ago, we were in Cadboro Bay eating cashews and freezing through our coats and marvelling at the moonlight washing the whole beach like thinned out watercolours. Tonight, there's no moon because it's been raining all day, and you're not here. And I am slowly going insane.