The last few days, a little sour milk. Not that I drink milk anymore. But I can still smell it and it's awful. Slinking about town during Christmas, I feel like an Outsider. The life I've chosen isn't easy but I hafta remember that there are alot of people whose lives are really hard and they didn't have a choice, so why the hell am I, with my university degree and my gift and my heart, all mopey? I chose this life for a reason, however vague, however undefined by my lack of discipline; I don't think I can choose anything else at this point. Even though The Other Way would have made it easier for me to make and be merry, it would have meant killing certain parts of myself.

Ah! But away from the city and tripping along a red clay trail through the wet forest, I'm at home in my skin. Around us hush lichen-mottled trees. Tiny birds trill, snatching red berries off skeletal branches in mid gymnastic flight. A hawk cries. Phosphorescent fern fronds uncurl their sex in pools of frosty winter light. Part of me, too, unfurls and stretches.

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