found myself reading walden at sunset just as those last beams of light came in through the window here at central onto the fleurdelisé on the wall opposite my bed as they have every night since september. i had to hold the book out over the edge of my bed to catch the light; it illuminated the page and i read until i couldn't see it anymore. last night i was editing a story i haven't looked at since march and it came to me to add in a wayward sentence in allusion to last summer-- i've written about last summer at length in other classes but i don't know if i'm ready to give it the treatment it deserves in good fiction. or that i'm ready for good fiction at all, for that matter. i don't think i ever will be.

i waited so long for spring and now that i can see flowering trees i'm shifting into summer, maybe because i remember the raw heat of last may best and i expect no transition. it's either that or the rains, and if it rains soon i suppose i'll be thinking differently. things are temperate for now. i'm leaving this room in nine days for another room with a different set of expectations, and i'd like to think i've learned not to have expectations, but i know that will never be true for me or anyone else. something said in creative writing today about driving home late at night after dropping someone off on a pleasant summer evening with all the windows open when the perfect song comes on the radio, and the feeling that comes along with it, the feeling of absolute unity and a flavour of providence, keeps coming to mind. i've had nights like that. i've had days like that. i've come upon places in the middle of the night that made me wish the morning would never come.