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I want to live in a hole-in-the-wall, somewhere in a tall brick building above cart wielding vendors selling food that I'm too afraid to eat. Where children run through the streets because there are no cars because there is no money to spark interest because money is not necessary to start a hidden village in the backstreets of a city. The smell of heat and smoke and the red-orange-yellow-green-blue-purple spices will rise to my window as I lay on my bamboo rug/mat/bed/kitchen table/couch/easy chair and breathe in the humid air. The light is red with the window closed and gold with it open, and the sky is red-orange-yellow-green-blue-purple-pink-cream-gray-black-white except through the clotheslines where you can see real sky or gray and thunder - what ever color that is - on rainy days. And I will wave everyday to the man in the bakery who looks sweaty and greasy - maybe from the bread, maybe from living there too long. I'll buy flowers that are fragile and limp from a womyn who sits under an awning on the corner on my way back from work. Back from the city, oversaturated with cars and even more oversaturated with people. Back from buildings that you have to strain to see the tops of. Back from the Starbuck's at every intersection and the honking and the men in their godly CEO suits and womyn in their godly CEO skirts. Or pantsuits. But you never see men wearing skirts.

I will be uninhibited in this journal, I don't censor myself for anybody.