Your only home is in your heart, and even then it's a cold bed you've made.

There are days and there are days.... I've seen better.

It would be unfair to attribute any of what is slithering through my brain, running a steady ourobouros, to an outside source. In truth, I am the font of all my problems.

I'll give you a slip and a whimper in exchange for a couple of notes. Find me in the library after school and I can point you to the most defaced book in the collection. But it's not that we're seeking. No steady thrills, no bad pills, just deadness.

I've stopped smoking and drinking. It drives me to madness. I'm going mad... mad with desire, pain, hunger, fear... actually make that just one side order of hunger and one main of fear.

I was watching television today and they were showing the story of a man who used to sing on the corner of Bloor and Yonge. You guys know him... he's this wizened old dude, looks like a winter wisp of a dead leaf, with his portable amp and microphone, crooning old country songs all day. Ben Kerr be his name. Some brown hair mousy girl, the girl who never says anything in her university lit class and probably works all week just to get her B, that mousy girl in pale blue pants says that Ben Kerr is just like her, always positive. And then we cut to a scene where we see the two of them, singing side by side, about one of them completing the other. Some perfect love duet. Then we cut to a freeze frame of Ben, looking benevolent, actually out of focus, wearing his "better than Viagra" yellow sweatshirt, and it lists 193... to 2005. Just one last love song my dear before I exit centre stage.

Somebody said that it's not easy to do what I've done... you know... take a trip to the old country, revisit the natives, dig up some treasure and hopefully cart it home. I don't know... I'm a time-traveller... a girl on her magic-carpet... dashing from one home to the next. It's not really of my choosing and yet it still seems better than a slow death of stillness. But now...I just want to feel safe. I don't even know how to get there.

It's hard to move from place to place... to make a home only in your heart. To walk blind-eyed at strangers, to hover around a telephone waiting for the ghosts to call...

I was walking up the stairs the other day. People were really in a push and a rush to get on the boat. Each step I took I felt another's breath close by. I put my foot up and the heel was scraped. I put another step up... the other heel is scraped. The movement of my foot is being squeezed out by the movement of an insistent just behind. Finally I turn around. A large girl with slitted cold eyes, her mouth curled flatly down, gazes accusingly at me.