My dream life has been especially rich these days, but I can't for the life of me remember any of them. I think the last one had to do with some shelf-hopping -- literally, hopping atop shelf to shelf, for records, I think. Who knows how that works. I should try write them down, I'm possessed by feelings for at least an hour after I wake.

Another episode about language. What does it mean, to have a crush? You are crushed. Crushed by what? Your imagination? What is destroyed by imagining? Do you destroy your crush by having a crush? If your crush refuses, are they still crushing you, and can you still crush them? I guess it's good she told me, although it was a bit weird to leave with it. I should've guessed, but I rarely do so rightly, so I never bother. I don't know if it's made things more or less complicated. I'll decide later. I had a nice time, though, sipping coffee and talking, and feeling ambivalently flattered.

I found the toolbox that I've needed for several years now, one with tiny drawers, to be filled with countless, random, marginally useful tiny things. A little bit sundazed, I treated myself to an ice cream cone (mint chocolate chip). I'll certainly be doing that again.

The rest was a "reggae evening," as James called it, although I have to say I've been having a lot of those lately, as well as mornings, and afternoons. Can't say I regret it at all, though. I don't think I'll ever get sick of Jamaican music. It's the only thing I can listen to any more at the record store that doesn't bore me.

I came home late and excessively hungry, so I ate half a pint of ice cream (chocolate Chardonnay), and sang a few songs to the windows. The cat came home excited and shared his half-digested friend with me on the kitchen floor. After dinner I ate the rest of the pint.