home

I'm back from work, it was slow and boring, which was to be expected.

I bought James Frey's A Million Little Pieces and began reading it tonight, I started writing inside the book...

As I read this I am staring old age in the face and thinking of the one I love. Stood at the bar looking into his glass is maybe the oldest human being I've ever seen, I feel sad that this man is alone, and he only has the bottom of his glass to look at and I want to tell him I love him and things will be okay for him. I don't. I have in my hand a photograph of my love, in the picture he is young. Younger than I am now. I want to tell him I love him and that things will be okay for us. I do. The old man is drinking Guinness and he looks sadder than anyone I have seen before. Old and sad and old. I serve him another sad Guinness and as I reach over to collect his empty glass he looks down my dress. I let him. He finishes his drink slowly and I smile at him and think of my love growing old and sad and drinking Guinness and looking down young girl's dresses. I look at the photograph, and then back at the old man and I know that I want time to stay the fuck away from me and my love.