Tuesday, July 15, 2008

I'm in the Paris of the East drinking coffee with the Dutch, who sing on the streets in English.

Anna has fallen in love. I watched her watching him, undressed on his back in the grass.

Goodbye, Anna is drunk and wounded. She climbed into her bunk. She lost her grip and she fell. There's blood on her dress, in her bed, on the floor, in her shoe.

We listed Joe's faults to him over dinner. He walked out of the restaurant and onto the streets of Bucharest.

Went to Budapest but my heart wasn't in it.

(Dear______, how are you? Are you having a nice time? I hope you are very well. Quite frankly I've missed your company. I will return to London with a bottle of Perfect Vodka in my handbag and my drawings of you and Anna in my diary.
Love, Olivia)

Anna's drunk and war wounded. Tell me stories. Anna climbed a tall metal fence, with her fingernails. She lost her grip and fell. There's blood on her hands and it's rolling down her wrists.

I confused emergency exit, Ieşire de urgențâ, with urgent desire.