I am now living in a house filled with Charles Bukowski, paint by numbers, owls, a swing in the backyard attached to the big tree, and christian art that is not meant to be religious.

I live with a young married couple, until I find a new place, on a convertible bed in a room that has a large slant, built in dressers, and 3 paint by number paintings, 2 owls, two windows, and a light.

My breasts feel saggy, as does my entire body. I want to sleep until noon, and read Sylvia Plath all day. I will forget I know a single soul in Portland, and drink coffee until I no longer need to. Though these days I never know when to stop. Perhaps a shower to scrub my body. Sometimes I feel like a good scrub seems to take off ten layers of myself, and I can sleep again.

It's time to sleep and dream of better times.