I felt like reading the Dickmans this morning. I pulled out Matthew and then remembered that Michael got lost in the move because I left him on my bed when I went to Austria. I remembered a moment of a dream from last night when I had an IV and my mother insisted on being there because I couldn't get away. I am writing a story about my mother who has dreams about her mother. I then thought, even though it's stupid, I want some silly boy to lie around reading poetry with me, smoking cigarettes even though I don't smoke and drinking wine out of the bottle. We will like each other until we don't and then we will resent each other horribly and the whole process will be entirely satisfying until I am hurt. I don't know where to find poets. I need to find some poets.