Maybe not.

She saw things differently, and that's that.

I'm kind of lost right now. One of my decks of tarot cards is staring at me, as it were, but I'm not sure I want to see what it has to say. I know I don't want to think, given a choice. Self-medicating... in a few minutes, a few hours, whenever I get up the courage or have the desperation, I'm going to take a shot of the vile stuff that's been slowly growing stronger in a clear glass bottle on the table. Wormwood, catnip, vodka, nicotine, cinnamon, cloves, how much will it take to send me back to a place where I can hold onto myself?

I'm sweating. It's hot here, damned hot, and I'll likely end up in a shower if I can find a clean towel. Gotta do laundry soon.

I... geh. I don't even know how to express myself properly, it's been too long since I dragged out my heart and dissected it here. I miss Rhett.

Trust me, there's a logical progression of thought there; just not a very useful one. I haven't been able to talk to Nick in days, not had much time to talk to Kadin. I'm amazed at how well Caleb held up, being down here alone... even with his company, I'm already feeling cut off from the world, as if there's some sort of wall comprised of distance and the strangeness of California that I can't climb over or walk around.

Eh. It'll improve. I know part of WHY I'm feeling like I am, and antihistamines will help - the roses that Caleb gave me the first day I got here stayed in their wrapper a bit too long. A large portion of my body has got mold spores on it now, and I breathed in an unfortunately large cloud of the damned things in the course of trying to clean up a bit. F'ing mold allergy. 's most of why I'm sweating, I suspect; I know it's a large chunk of why I'm suddenly depressed, itching, choking, my vision blurring. I should go find my inhaler, actually. It feels as if my head is in a vise... tight, my thoughts straining against bone and flesh, trying to push their way outward.

Story time soon, kiddies. I won't take antihistamines yet, not when I can feel the traces of insanity and allergic reaction settling into the beginnings of a tale, an image, creation.

Why is it that I only feel inspired when I'm unwell?