Listening to Björk Post - mostly isobel - on the headstereo; breathing the getting-cold autumn air in a denim jacket, leaves under my feet, through Aurilia's Finland. I can't stay here much longer. I can't. This is purgatory, this week before the north Atlantic; it will only make me lonelier and more homesick for places I call mine and for places I've never been but that's exactly what I need.

I miss fall and the dust of that want gets in my eyes. How's that for adolescence? It must be the pending time in Connecticut. For every place full of water and wind there's a mate in blue-collar stripmall grey. Always looking for a sunlit Away, always forgetting the grime, the poverty, the alone, the stuck. What do you think you'll find there that you won't find here? Can't keep looking for some one or some thing to change you from the outside, ne? Marionette aspirations.

Black coffee full of sugar because I miss you.