I was going to write a long, vaguely transcendental entry about Chinatown and solitude and the band I saw last Friday, and the books I am reading and the real reason I was so depressed second semester senior year and maybe other things. But then all the food in my fridge went bad. And when I went to the Chinese-American place down the street for takeout, I discovered too late that I did not order rice with my crispy garlic chicken. So now there is no word fuel, only excuses.
At least the long hours I spend on the subway give me lots of time to think about what I'm not writing.