Bus driver: Me. I always think I am as big as a bus. Take up all the room.
Three-year-old: Me.
Thirteen-year-old: Me (but why?) This confuses me. Where does me as a thirteen-year-old come in?
Stairs: Going down into consciousness (black).
Papers: Letters I write to Micha? Letters she writes back?
Mall: Activity.
Sports car: Going for one hell of a ride — it would seem. Was there not a phoenix painted on the hood of that car?
Sportswear: Hmm…new as a symbol. Getting ready for a match of some kind.
Bernice: Going on a trip?
Husband: ?
Grandpapa: Now there’s a surprise. Never, ever dreamt of him as far as I can remember. Does he know something I don’t? What did he say in my ear? For that matter was I the thirteen-year-old? If so, why? He looked like the walking dead. Why was I so passive?
No date (NSA journal entry after adjustment) Today I felt like throwing a temper tantrum. I felt like screaming,
“I’ve had enough! This has got to stop! No more!” I want to scream, to trash everything in sight.
June 20, 1999 (Computer Journal)