There's this little pond in Golden Gate Park that has the strangest feel to it (yes, I found it again, Lesa). It's completely covered with some kind of watery plant that for some reason I call duck weed, I don't know why -- ducks do live on the pond, shoving their way through the scum and tangles and dipping down into the water below, but they're usually almost completely quiet, fairly motionless, so not ducklike, and they ignore people. The whole pond is in a kind of pocket between steep slopes, very little sunlight, and once when I walked through there a ragged man lurched up to me and said, "Nothing helps." I walked on, thinking to myself maybe that's true? Wondering about him, wondering about that place, about the pond, which is surrounded with greenery and flowers, but so locked in, so stagnant -- creepy.




And also, I think about Gackt. Hi, Gackt!




That's all I have for today. Oh, except: looks like I'm going back to nights. I'm more than okay with that. Twenty percent differential, no running around like a crazy person; yes, please. Weird!