ha!

I am marvelously content with existence right now; or at least enraptured by its spontaneity. I think that as long as we breathe, love, and feel, life will never be boring because it never tires of putting the next course in front of you, and I am merely picking at the appetizer. I suppose that you could analagously say that the best way to judge an existence is by its calamari, and mine is never overcooked.

I really don't think I give a damn what happens to me in the future as long as I continue to be alive; as long as I can laugh. I don't even know what I'm trying to say here--I rarely do. I have no private diary in the shadow of this one, friends, nor any entries that go unpublished. I give forth my best efforts to this dusty looking-glass in recording what I experience, and it is no match for the sensations evoked by such simple pleasures as nutmeg in coffee, a smile, or an unrealistically beautiful person whom you are sure you will never see again. I baked bread today and felt it with my flour-dusted hands. I brushed the autumn-colored crust with olive oil like I was painting some kind of edible canvas, and gave a piece of the artwork to a friend (DeGouy is absolutely fucking brilliant because he acknowledges the fact that cooking's purpose is clearly and unmistakably to improve the quality of human life and nothing else).

I'd better go to bed.