It's almost like the rainy season here. Instead of jungle though, there is only concrete and all we bury beneath it. Coffee, cigarettes from Russia pastel-configured to go with my outfits, time that passes or doesn't, things that begin or don't, end or don't. I feel free, and yet I struggle to maintain the idea that I can sustain all this. Dreams feel so close and even at night lost in sleep I am lucid and I glow like Vodka in a storm-glass. I understand how fragile life is, how quick it can all be over, and so I try to stay calm, and let it all pass over like so much water. When I was little I would emerge from the Pacific Ocean covered in seaweed and salt---I must have looked like a wet-rat---I thought I looked like a mermaid. Time was, I thought I would never be more than a passing interest to anyone. Now, having been someone's pet, someone's true love almost-soulmate, someone's near-fatal obsession, and someone's muse, I am satisfied that I am important enough. My life is still very interior, though not as much as it was when I was a child, when I was a teenager. I have an easier time bending reality to my will now. I still want cities that dashing characters inhabit, a New York feeling with West Coast weather. I have the revenge of the shy, straggly girl: I model, I write, I draw, I paint, I work, I read. Quiet tastes strange, as does feeling I have nothing to fight. I do not ask for Tigers, and I am happy just to watch them and let them come and go as they please. It's a pure time. It is like an Orchid trapped under glass. No one can trample it under foot.