A bit of an unfinished scene:

"Why now, why a goodbye now?"
"You know I have to leave."
"What am I to do?"
"Please, we both know..."
"What do you mean, don't be cruel."
"You'll be fine, you're always fine."
"But I've lived my life for you."
"For me, for me only? What about all the others who come parading to your door, who laugh and smile in your face. What then, are you thinking of me then?"
"As if you are one to speak of things like that. I've seen you holding them, your other women, in the market or in a bar-"
"And what of it, I'm only doing the same as you."
"I know I..."
"You're what, you're sorry? Sorry for how it turned out, sorry that you have to stand here and say lies so neither of us leaves disappointed?"
"That's not true."
"Don't say things like that now, it's useless."
"Why did you even come?"
"I thought you deserved a goodbye."
"I think you do too." She looked at him, his hair blowing, his hands shoved in his pockets, standing outside like two strangers. "Here's your goodbye then. I hated myself the day I let you leave." She paused. "I have missed you. There's something for you to take away."
"How was I to know?"
"You weren't, I was to find someone, fall in love, and forget you."
"It was too bad you didn't."
"I know."
"Well, I suppose I need to leave now."
"Yes, I shouldn't keep you." He didn't move though, only stayed swaying from side to side, looking at the broken crust of snow around his boots.
"I thought of you sometimes too, when it was cold and dark and I was alone, but only then."
"Only at those times?"
"Yes."
"You'll miss your train if you stay here much longer." she paused. "Why do you want to leave so badly?"
"Because it will be something different."
"I wonder to how many people you say that to."
"None. Only you, only now."
"Why?"
"Because it sounds terrible to say it aloud."
"What do you tell them then, when they ask?"
"That I hope to have a better life somewhere else, somewhere where I am a stranger."
"And that isn't true?"
"I don't think I'll ever have a better life anywhere, here, there, the desert, it doesn't matter." She was quiet. She hadn't noticed how he had changed. She had just seen the man of those years ago rather than the man standing here in the snow shaking a little from cold in a thin coat, and with burning eyes circled with gray.
"You don't look happy."
"I don't, do I?" He laughed a little. "That is because I'm not."
"You used to be, to smile and joke and-"
"Don't talk of how everything used to be, it's no help now for the present. All my life I've spent looking back and it's finally proven to be fatal." There was a silence.
"Before you go, just tell me one thing."
"What is that?"
"Have you missed me too, just for a moment, for a second?"
"Of course I have. Why do you think I've come here, here when I could be anywhere else?"
"You told me it was to say a goodbye."
"Well, I-"
"Perhaps it was only to be sure that you're not leaving anything worthwhile behind."
"Well, I see you've ceased to be concerned with sparing my feelings."
"It's the truth though, isn't it?"
"Sometimes those first months I would walk to your apartment and see if your light was on, if I could catch your shadow moving behind the drapes. I would wait until you came into the street and watch you walk away alone."
"Why would you do that?"
"Because I couldn’t understand why-"
"Why what?"
"Why we became how we are now so that we stand here and lament things that can never be changed, useless things."
"I thought you no longer cared, that you only wanted to leave, to carry on somewhere else without thinking of what you're leaving behind."
"I do still."
"Than leave. Stop telling me these guilty regrets so you can feel justified in going."
"That's not-"
"I've had enough." She turned to walk away, staring back at him one last time. "I hope you find whatever you're looking for, wherever you're going."
"No, wait." He grabbed her wrist. She gazed back at him, at the new lines around his mouth, his eyes, a certain sadness that was there, pitiful sadness.
"What is it now?"
"I- I..."
"You never know. You never could tell me, could you."

What kind of misery we don't share that stews and festers within us for the most trivial of reasons, for a voice or a word or an event that grows and grows the more we replay it, fix upon it, and think of it until it is stifling to even breath for the weight of this is so very strong. The day to day miseries, the problems and questions that arise because there is no milk, or the newspaper is wet, or it's cloudy, or we overslept, all this rankles us until at the slightest provocation we gnash our teeth in anger and slink away in regret.

1: 16

I have lost the ability of coherent thought.

12:57

Not even vaguely tired, I believe that I have successfully become nocturnal.

12:58

Should really undress, wash face, ect., sleep. But sleep seems so undesirable, like a woman grown old and freckled, no longer seductive.

It is already Thursday, one more block of time whiled away meaninglessly.

1:00

It is entertaining to watch TV after twelve - there are so many commercials for medication to curb insomnia.


1:01

There is a metal cat sculpture with a photograph of a kitten inside sitting on my desk, I suppose I never replaced the picture with something more personal. Why did I keep this cat, or, even less heartening, why is it on display?

Quite a puzzle.

1:03

I never wrote the thank-you note to that woman, I believe I am officially marked for eternal damnation.

I could murder 300 children at a Christian hospital and it still wouldn't matter - I am going to hell because of one old woman and a single thank-you note.

1:05

My sister left her glass of chocolate milk in my room, with a spoon balancing rather dangerously on the cusp of toppling out.

She used all the remaining milk for that one glass.

She only smiled with her bright shining eyes and giggled.

1:08

Chirping crickets, sounds like little high pitched bells ringing and ringing and ringing endlessly in cushions of grass.

Quite ashamed to recount the events of the night - compared pictures of Franz Kafka and Vladimir Mayakovsky, arguing over which of the two was better looking.
Objectively, I believe the fight must fall to the socialist poet, who is broodingly handsome in the style of Laurence Olivier.
However, in terms of personal taste I must bow, as always, to the delightfully neurotic Czech writer, who steals my heart with his tender, boyish charm.
Kafka, appropriately disturbed and lonesome. Mayakovsky, sulking like a Bolshevik.
Taking part in these guilty pleasures was somewhat justified, I may defend, for much of the night was consumed in entertaining Anma, my German grandmother who holds a taste for the bizarre. Were it Anma alone I may have been able to cope without indulging in somewhat disturbing girlish fantasies, but my mother insisted upon acting the part of the deciever. Her time is consumed in entertaining men, and the few short segments where she forces herself away to provide food to her pitifully mewing offspring are similarly dominated by endless conversation about the aformentioned members of her ever-growing menagerie. And so tonight, as she carried on about her intimate liasions, she suddenly feigned fatigue and forced my sister and I to traverse to Publix, accompanied by the grandmother! Moreover, (and my face burns with wrath even as I type) she is leaving us, helpless, tomorrow night to laciviously dine with Herr Richard and his parents at an expensive restaurant on South Beach!
I feel that my mother has been lagging her parental duties to sashay about town acting as if she is thirty, leaving my sister and I to stagnate as Bastille prisoners encased in iron masks, secrets hidden and forgotten so as not to shatter the fragile veil assembled to cover a less than desirable past.