February 22, 2010
Still don't know what to write about tonight. I don't know why, but I guess I know when I felt different. I was sitting on the orange bench that Dina painted, using my jacket as a converted tortoise shell, concealing half of my face. Every so often I'd take a drag, and either attempt to nod at someone entering the store or keep my eyes focused in another direction. I willed myself to relax, suddenly stuck with the words of my late grandfater: "Relax, relax, relax. The good life is out there--let it come to you," he once said.