diet coca cola and unlit cigareetes

Sometimes London makes me feel a little bit dry, both in my skin and my soul. Maybe that's what it's like to be content or something, but I'm not sure if I like it. I constantly have the urge to write something down, and so I pick up a pen and hold it above the paper, and then realize I don't actually have anything to say. It's like when you talk just to hear your own voice. It's like when you go to take a swig of your drink and realize that you already drank it all. But it's getting better. In the last few weeks I have been reading some really amazing things for my classes. I started off feeling pretty apathetic to most of it, but now I feel an urge to copy down all of the Great Gatsby in my own handwriting. Faulkner too, and Lorca, and Yeats and Ginsberg and Hemmingway. I'm not completely positive but I think maybe America is the best country, or lack thereof, in the world. Not best in the sense that a european might mean (i.e., actually good), but best in all the ways that the europeans never think of. I am being deliberately vague here because I don't actually know what I'm talking about. I don't think I've ever really been to America any more than I've been to France. I am judging purely by what I've heard. ex:

"I look at it, and I think it is the most beautiful history in the world. It is the history of me and of my people. And if I came here yesterday I should still think so. It is the history of all aspiration--not just the American dream but the human dream and if I came at the end of it that too is a place in the line of pioneers."

So maybe I am more at home in american literature than I am in any given physical space. That is sad, but in a beautiful way, and what could be more american than that? Maybe Wilco?

So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.