twenty-eight august
eleven : forty-two p.m.

"i have a whole year. i already waste all my time trying to do something else with evan. or sam. or jack. it doesn't matter. i have a whole year to waste my time. i drive with evan, and its something to do. i concentrate on driving, and he talks about music, and we get tea at the diner, and he complains that he sees the same people everyday there, and i don't care."

he took a break to compose his thoughts.

"i don't know. nothing is the same. i don't..i don't know what i'm going to do. i am never going to set up my darkroom, and no matter how much i try to fool myself, i'm not going to spend all my time in it. i'm going to spend nights sitting in a fucking parking lot reading. ..i'm sorry. i'm sorry."

i am trying not to cry. i am trying very, very hard.

i don't know if i can last much longer.