It is a strange thing to have two lives. In one life I live in a garret, and creep around other people’s routines, wincing when the bedroom door sticks in the heat or I drop the soap in the shower. In one I read by lamplight in an overstuffed chair, and when I look up at the clock I find it is uncommonly late; after I dream there is no one there to tell it to; when I read again in the early morning hours it is almost like I am still dreaming.
In another life I do everything to make this garret possible. In both lives there is always the pull towards the overstuffed chair and the looking around for my love to tell my dreams to. Twin worlds, twin longings.