Listen to Eros Ramazzotti’s “Esta Pasando Noviembre”; a voice, which reminds me of my childhood and for some reason, my late brother.

And from time to time I look beyond the window into the gray night slowly turning into dark blue and watch the yellow lights of the vehicles approaching in the far distance and I find it peaceful that I’m at the top here, in the library with the clean furniture and only watching behind the comfort of the tall, glass windows.

The white, diamond lights of buildings dance through the mist and the light of streetlamps melts onto the glistening-wet pavement.

It’s been gray all week; I’ve been reading Dostoevsky or Solzhenytsin from the comfort of my room and sometimes, when I’ve had far too much of Dostoevsky or Solzhenytsin, I read Oates’ “Blonde” and I imagined myself—though briefly—each time I read it, as Marylin or Norma, or both. There’s no way to describe it, only sometimes I suppose we all feel like Marylin, or Norma, or both.

I’m now glad I’ve stayed behind. A week of contemplation, reading, and solitude—a difficult thing to come by, no matter what.

наконец-то, я осталась одна. и никого здесь, только мысли...

aeka at 6:52 p.m.