Another hot and sunny day in Los Angeles comes to an end, one of so many that all seem exactly alike. The only thing reminding me that time passes is the potted flowers in my window, slowly dying because no one cares enough to give them the water and attention they need.
There is no band.
I'm beginning to realize that living without mom for so many months, alone in this large house, was turning me into a chronic sleepwalker. I spent too much time wearing her vintage dresses, reading her books, polishing her collection of antique dolls. Maybe it meant that I missed her, and I don't know why but since she got back I'm dreaming again, and memories of feelings I once had are coming together, fragment by fragment.
Il n y'a pas d'orchestre.
I guess you can never truly feel alive in an emotional vacuum, so as much as I blame my mother for all of her shortcomings, I'm almost glad she's home again. It's slowly bringing me back to reality, whatever that is.