Dearest love, in a watery mood this evening, unfocused, not really living in the moment, a little too projected into the future. So I'm trying to refocus myself. Why do I like to blog? To touch your hand, when I can't. So I'm touching your hand. A letter to you.

I wrote the other day that I'd wish to dab perfume, and it's been gnawing at me a bit, because I don't actually own any. And so I thought about Miss Dior, and I googled it, and it's obtainable, but how can I ask D for $78 (no tax, free shipping) for perfume for god's sake. It's untenable. Plus, perhaps the perfume is too connected with an ancient past, though on Amazon a customer review cited how she's worn it for some forty years, since age 16. I don't know. Problematic. So dabbing perfume while, or before, you nap? No, maybe not. I will try to score some really nice clean lemon-verbena scented soap though - though honestly, I can't even promise that. This is the frame of mind I'm in - not stressing exactly, but worrying about - perfume, of all things. A Joni Mitchell song played on the radio yesterday - of course I know it - something about fancy French cologne and I could drink a case of you. And clean white linens. You see, this is in the nature of thinking already ridiculously too-detail-oriented-much into the future, and so to relieve my mind's going there, to simply get it down on paper to free my mind, I've started a little list already, of what to pack, what to bring. Clean white linens, a case of... rosé... though I don't know your preferred libation but there's a wonderful little wine shop just around the corner... and - fancy French cologne? We'll see. The first evening when you inhale me - well, I guess it'll just be me, plus my freshly shampooed hair...