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143

Crying Count: 3

. . .

Baby, you need more than guitars and drums. You need a piano, or some horns, or strings, or one of those voices that can make anyone weak in the knees.

. . .

The plot has turned again. Both of my grandmothers have offered their spare bedrooms, and I�ve been thinking of reasons to stay. You should know I can�t come up with one.

And just thinking about being that close to the ocean is almost enough, close enough to take a day on the weekend and fall asleep in the sand. If I could tell you what that means, if I could find it. But, I can only say that having the beach there brings me comfort.

For the first time in my life, people want me to be there. My dad was so excited to hear that I was thinking about it, he called me back here, my mother�s house, something he�s never been able to do. And, he�s sending me money to help me get back, if that�s something I want to do. My brother wished I was there, my grandmother offered her space behind the garage for me to use as a studio. The art store in Berkeley would be an hour and a half away. Everyone but my mom would be nothing more than 20 minutes away. San Francisco, two hours. Sex, two and a half hours.

. . .

I said I would think about it. I told my dad that I had already composed my resignation letter in my mind. I�m going to price getting my stuff out there tomorrow at work. I�m going to think about it.

. . .

I�m afraid that moving back home would make it harder to see you.

. . .

I really want to go back to where it�s safe, but I can�t figure out why I�m second guessing myself.

I�m not going any where here.

I want to go some where.

7:26 p.m. - 2002-12-25

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