D: 12/8/2004

It must be awful to drown. He was fishing at their usual campsite,
she was inside the caravan (instead of sitting beside him on a little
stool, as she usually did). The bank was steep. He couldn't swim.

It must be awful to drown. I can't imagine: I don't want to
imagine.

So here I am, in front of the computer yet again (always here). Type
type type (typo). And what is the point? I get fed up of replying to
emails. I know: it's because I dread putting the furniture back in my
room. I finally got round to painting the walls, and now I need to get
round to putting everything back.

Let's make a scrapbook of my heart, fill it with all my scars. Let's be
serious about this - a few candles and I'm burning up. Stop, now.
That's enough. Quite enough. That's a good idea, I'll ramble until I
get the thoughts out (except, oh help me, they're stuck) Look at the
stars: wonder.

After going to a funeral, it seems a wonder I am still alive.
Rehearsing.
I don't want a funeral like that, of course, I'm not Christian. Stop
thinking about myself all the time.

Oh whatever happens...