I lost my bike yesterday. Carelessness, I left it outside the computer center for a few days. I went in to use the internet today and tried writing a letter but it broke me up with bitterness and I couldn't send it. As I left I walked along the path between the gardens, eyes all full of tears and crying heavily inside. I wondered what I would do if I met someone at that moment. I would tell them I lost my bike, laughing because I felt like such a little girl, crying because I lost something precious. But really I have a broken heart.
I think of home, of the rooms, my rooms, of new york and all else. Now I can understand how prisoners can walk through their homes and look at everything those days and nights away, as in The Stranger. With time and a small effort I too could conjure up my house in college, possibly the house on Tuttle Rd [my first].
I smell coal outside, briefly. I think of eastern europe and wonder about love.
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