there is a certain anxiety in waiting for the phone to ring or the possibility of the door opening, thus granting a fragile sense of freedom from the prison of boredom and the torments of this mind left to feed on itself. although, to be honest, there's no hope of the door opening at the moment.
last night was just one of those night where i was hoping for a call, though i can't imagine why i would be. i had already spoken to the The Golden Boy and he is about the only one who might call on any given evening. i mowed the lawn. i fixed a small dinner. i played a little halo: reach. i watched some tivo recordings. i imagined and scribbled down ideas for an ending to the novel i'm currently trying to finish. i dreamed.
a call never came by the way.
ghost
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