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From Hollins:
While the coffee shop in town has easily become a second living room to us, I suppose the library at Hollins has become a third (for me, anyway). I drop off C. and skip about campus and take advantage of the wi-fi. There are times when I realize I’ve not gotten enough sleep. My body starts to slouch in the chair. My mind says get up, write something down, notice the wasps about to sting you, a girl at an easel, spy a headline, jump to a url, anything. When I come out of the building, C. says I look like I’ve been sleeping. No, I say. I’ve been reading the newspaper, an article about the spread of the Marburg virus, how it comes and goes, hard to determine exactly where the hell it’s coming from.

From the comic store:
Yes, the next issue of Seven Soldiers. Put it in my sweet little hands. Let me devour this.

From the library in town:
I’m here with C. looking for silent films for a school project. No luck. A man who looks homeless, is having problems, limping along slowly, pants soiled. We talk about how we feel bad for him.

Black coffee blues:
The sun comes into this one window, and I’m on the side it hits direct, so I have to move over to the other. The girl there, even though I say hello to her, keeps quiet and buried deep in her studies. Cell rings and she is flustered with boy troubles and instantly smoking on the sidewalk. I guess she didn’t respond because I was so soft spoken. Damn my shyness. Other people stomp around and kick doors in, socially speaking. I’m just not like that in the beginning. Later on I’m more at home with people, more myself. But anyway, I haven’t felt myself lately, this year. Haven’t felt myself for a long while.

I enjoy the atmosphere here, but often wish to absorb myself in writing, thoughts, and whatever it is I brought down here to read, and all is good. Which is why when people come stomping around asking me how I’m doing over and over I get a little testy. There are a couple of kids here that do this. They test my patience, let’s say. And here they come now, in fucking hordes. The window seats are the main hang out spots and to the side is a table of newspapers. Everyone flocks over to the headlines about the Pope and to say what’s up. Oh, nothing, nada, not much, please go away, leave me be, I’m not here, I don’t know you, I wish to keep it that way, pretend you’ve never seen me before and take your swift leave.