2004-03-19 - 2:39 p.m.
Hi there,
I’m busy, stressed and behind with the things I have to do today. But typically I feel like writing to you. I’ve cut my hand, a small paper cut. I suppose it would be best described as ‘nicked’, a small red tear in my skin. Today feels as if its been cut out of a story book. Explained, I suppose, by seeing a stereotypical ‘Jewish’ man with a hooked nose walking past the window of the café I had breakfast in. On the end of his long nose he had a rain drop hanging. Today, has a surreal quality. People don’t seem real, it doesn’t seem real that there is a person who’s going to read this. You don’t seem real to me.
I realised that I haven’t changed, that I’m just the same person I was before I went out with you. Maybe a little more ‘can’t give a damn’, but the same all the same. The person you speak to on the phone is just a front. A mask I put on with my clothes, choosing it to match my socks. But at the time it seems so real, as if that is the real me.
