It hasn’t stopped rain­ing since I woke up this morn­ing, and now it’s dark, with only the street­lamps and their reflec­tions in the pud­dles for light. It’s cold outside.

This is a good thing.

I feel like the epony­mous char­ac­ter in Onegin. Sitting on the bal­cony in the dead of win­ter, wait­ing for a let­ter. His ser­vant, hand­ing him a stemmed glass of vodka, asks him to come inside because it’s cold. “I like the cold” he replies, as he resigns him­self to his fate.

He walks down the streets of Saint Petersburg, and his motif comes in on the piano, fol­lowed by strings. FADE TO BLACK.

A stoic face to the world. Can I say stoic? I like stoic.

These titles are get­ting harder and harder to write.

And I want to say that I’m melan­choly, but I’m not. But I’m not giddy either. My emo­tions aren’t black and white. They’re a mix­ture of ups and down. I don’t know what to say when I don’t know what I’m feel­ing or what comes next.

I’m just wait­ing. Passive. Yielding.