thurs

This morning my bedroom is cool and blue. There is something like the taste of raw broccoli in my throat, fresh and bitter and fibrous. The cat woke me up with her needle-fingers on my scalp too early, when whiskey still had me tied up in a dream (A man who had been in love with and dismissed by me decided to court my mother, with great success. I found this to be entirely inappropriate and enraging).

I should like to have some coffee.