Last night was great, dancing in a tiny room full of people in Kensington, so many people from the island, limbs like water, lying like sardines in a bed with sheepskin listening to Zeesy tell story after story and getting in a cab at sunrise. Now I need to stay happy. It’s January and then February, the worst months of all. Maybe I should join the gym with the funniest name - HPV Fitness, short for High Park Village - and run while the sidewalks are too frozen with ice? 

Last year was a lot of shit. Everyone died. This year should be better, right? I can’t be unlucky enough to everyone die two years in a row. I want it to be July, I want to be in a lake in Sweden and in the highlands in Iceland and never wear a funeral dress, never send orchids, never send goodbye letters, never think about what “taken off life support” really means. I wouldn’t go to Nu’uanu Pali because I was there with my grandfather. I haven’t wanted to hear any Sibelius since June when Finlandia played at his funeral. But in March I’ll go hear Tapiola and it will be alright, I think.

I have a Dennis Cooper book, The Marbled Swarm, I’ve been saving to read, maybe that will be a good thing to start with.