One hour and thirty eight minutes on the phone with, er, what's her name. . . ?

We had to count till three and hang up otherwise that Trans-Atlantic call was going to make a hole in my bank account.*

I'm starting to wonder if I would ever get over her or would I just end up my days rehearsing these last months that we spent together over and over again, confined deep inside a a mental institution, under heavy medication, with a straight jacket, bars in windows and talking to myself and making imaginary conversations. . .

I just wonder you know. . .



*Not really, but I like how it sounds.