It's occurred to me that that strange time during the summer when I had a room to myself, a life full of warm summer nights and excitement and Diablo II and cheap pasta and the hotel room–scented car...it's gone now, isn't it? It's fall, well into fall, in fact, and all I can do is wait. "Fasting and waiting," though, that's what Siddhartha's good at.

I miss things. I retain a childish wish that everything would just work itself out—despite what y'all may think, nothing, as of yet, is set in stone.

"Don't say I'm out of touch with this rampant chaos—your reality. I know well what lies beyond my sleeping refuge—the nightmare. I built my own world to escape."

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