I have never felt as much like a writer as i did late last night.

With my roommate fast asleep (before 9 o clock on a saturday!) i ventured down the elevator to find the smoking crowd also strangely absent. Apparently the first frat party of the season had spread them about the campus and a few returned much later saying they did not appreciate being called freshmeat

after two cigarettes alone in the cold,I came back up snuck into the room so as not to disturb collette and kidnapped a notebook and a pen. So i could once again go outside and smoke.

this time, with the tables filled with strangers i sat on a table, with my b ack against cement and wrote pages apon pages. cigarette in mouth, an occassional ash brushed off the paper.

I felt like poe, or some other tortured poet, in the darkw ith a cigarette and a pen. So perfect and natural. pain poetry and nicotine.

It was the perfect night for a few hours, though i froze and shivered. i found the words this morning, and read through them quickly, in a moment with no eyes over my shoulder. I finished the sentence that the arrival of friends cut short.

it was not my best, but not my worst, a certain delightful mediocrity. something about it, perhaps the scent of the pages, makes it the best thing i have ever written