Dear Brad,

I have swallowed a long black sock, and it's not even midnight yet. I tried to write you a letter, but now I am writing this one.

The most depressing book about Los Angeles is The Day of the Locust. At this point, in this fragile chick stage of your Los Angelesing, I recommend that you Avoid it. Also, don't watch any David Lynch movies.

This has been the end of my day: "What is truth? What is Beauty? Why, whenever I start to play a song on guitar, I hear a bad voice in my head?" I have to write a song for a wedding and my eyes are getting larger and larger thinking about how on earth it is going to come to me. I have to believe it will, but I also think my soul has set gargoyles all around itself that scare away creativity and light. One gargoyle looks a lot like a guy I used to date. YOU KNOW THE ONE.

When I was at my grandmother's house last weekend, I went into the attic and found a bunch of old textbooks from Bard in a trunk. One was a collection of Baudelaire. I can't wait to re-read it. He is sometimes like the bedroom of a king and sometimes like the bottom of a bad well. Have you tried him?

NOW it's midnight. I feel I must end with an axiom, or something sententious. The gravity of the day has settled into the part of myself that only functions when it's flying. How was improv? What do your gargoyles look like? (What they are are clay pigeons and where is my gun.)

sincerely,

Ariana