I dreamt last night that I was flying on a Green Tortoise airplane that had mattresses spread out instead of chairs. I was lying on one of these mattresses, wrapped in a blanket, when woman in a purple dress walked by me a few times and then sat down nearby, saying, "I hope you don't mind, but it's the color of your eyes..."

"What about the color?" I asked, and she told me that their color was made when I first caught sight of Juno. And then she said, "Well, I'm a prognosticator. You won't like this. But you are bound to lose sight in one or both of your eyes." I was startled and rolled over on the mattress, but somehow I could still see her. Suddenly, just as she was leaving for another mattress, her eyes narrowed, her head tilted slightly to the side, and she added, almost wonderingly: "Either that, or it's already happened."

*

It's odd still being here. In Chicago. In an apartment that doesn't feel like home. I feel completely done, and not just a little bit miserable and fat and lonely. Surely I need more exercise, but it's hard to get myself to do more than sit-ups on the living-room floor while daydreaming about the greenspaces elsewhere in the world. I don't know why, but this feeling of having horribly failed somehow has taken up residence, and only reading or talking to nm seems to make it feel better. Man, I'm a sad sac... maybe I just need spring like the rest of this city?