I had bread and water for dinner. It's not so poor a ration as some might think.

Walking out of the 329 building is like emerging from underneath Antartica's hundred-foot-thick ice into Death Valley's noonday sun. My phone, awakening from its hibernation, tells me I have voicemail in no uncertain tones. I always think that it could be you, as though you were the only person who would call me -- even when you're really the last person who would want to. I'll never get over you.