do you look at the clock at eleven minute increments?

chère mon amie,

last night i wrote you a letter. well, half a letter. and then it got too difficult and i decided it wasn't a very good letter and it didn't say very much save the things that mean very little. so i put my pen away and closed the notebook, and it wasn't as if i had planned it or anything, so it was no big deal, and even though i could have read, i could have written something else, finished off my story perhaps, even though i wasn't at all sleepy, i felt very tired and so i decided to turn off the light and try to fall asleep. i thought about the little sheep my friend had given me, something to count she had said and it made me smile but didn't help me sleep. then i thought about my other friend, and her pink-ness and thought how different we were although we are the same age, and how it was all so different, there is no one, now, to swap with me non-sensible but clearly grammatical sentences on a daily basis and although they're here and you are not, i could not let myself give in to that same innocence of trust that we had. is this cynicism? is this bitterness? the night does not taste bitter to me, but the sweetness makes it sad because it doesn't last. and while darkness is always warmer than white because white lets nothing in while the dark absorbs all, it got very cold last night.

regards 101

the lady of light xx