Woke up at 11 by reflections of the pool dancing above me on the ceiling. Filled with a strange sadness I put on my Celine dress and slippers and walked down to the café. Air sweet of flowers and exhaust fumes and freshly grinded arabica. It's where me and black used to have our mornin' cigarett but she isn't there either (where IS she?). Instead a guy that introduces himself as an "Entourage actor" sits by.
"Whaddya readin?" he asks.
"Emily Dickinsson." I tell him. He nods
"Isn't that the chick who killed someone."
And they say americans don't know literature. Only they speak in difficult metaphors.
As I walk home I'm struck by how much I MISS her. I'm starting to think maybe she was just a dream, like my brother or the rest of the world. But then I see her scars on my arm and know she's still out there somewhere.
I'm goin to swing by her old house. Maybe they know something.
By the way, if you live in LA why not swing by @ the Marmont tonite! I'll meet some friends and take pictures