so she sits on the fifth. Floor in the central library in vancouver on july 20th. And she starts writing. It

is 1:30 PM and she has about 55 minutes left on this computerstation. She ponders if there is enough

time to pen something moderately good, print it out and staple it together and basically feel good about

her writing. The person sitting at the computer next to her is listening to his music, which is pretty loud,

so she can listen in. she does not like his taste in music, next time she should sit near someone with

better taste. Jazz would be good. But then again, beggars can't be choosers. She is not quite sure, if this

phrase is applicable in this case, but she likes to use it anyways. Outside the sun is shining, which is

nice, so nice, and her it is cool and fresh and well-ventilated. So very nice. Bliss or something of that

kind. She went thru holt renfrew and looked at shoes, at clothes, at purses. Actually she just looked at

handbags, and talked with the woman in the Dior section about the new collection. Summer and fall.

Fashionstores are really cool. She loves them. They are not needed and superexpensive. They are just

wonderful, so very great. One day she will work for one of them, making finally money with this stupid

artadventure of hers. Fashion will pay the bills, should pay it. Worked for Tom Ford. Whom she

worships. Her favourite artist. She hates being a writer, does it anyways. Maybe she can sell her words,

eventually. Maybe her drawings, animations. One day, one day.

She ponders what to write about. Stuff would be good. Some intelligent stuff, maybe. Something

smashing. Somehow this is not her day, the vocab is just too crude. She is about to use 2 instead of too

and to. She ponders where she stands in the world of writing, in the world of film. Maybe nowhere.

Yet. She does not make money with this. Yet.

A man with a hat walks by. She looks around, lots of people wear hats. It is summer, skincancer

should be prevented. People smell like sunlotion. She looks at her nails. They are red. She uses short

sentences, miniphrases, observations distlled into aphorisms. Short, short stuff.

The windows here are so very tall, up to the ceiling, aith some kind of mesh in front of them, because

of the sun. the library here is imposing and sheer beauty. She loves it. Others don't. She listened to

moshe safdie talk about his little wonder here, about habitat. Actually he did not talk about habitat, but

she wanted to ask him about that. Those were her days when she was figuring out how to segway int

architecture. She does not really want to do that anymore, she would like to study architectural theory,

though. And filmtheory. And combine them. Very scholastically, highly intelligently. Well-researched,

discursive. She should go down to blenz and have another tea. She has much too many teas these day.

All over town. Peppermint, chamomile, that kind of atuff. And then she writes about that. Down and

out on the eastcoast, on the westcoast. Traveloguing away. Blogging away. Facebooking away. These

are her days. She still has to cash her cheque. Where is the wordcount on this thing? The software is

kind of temperamental, they all are. This is her life. But she said that before.

Alexandria, books, libraries. This is what counts. Words on paper. Spoken words. Poems that should

go somewhere, that should form while spewed out on woodpulp. Papyrus. She lost her connect, the

sentences court disconnect. Insanity, like always, is so very near. But never near enough. Luckily. The

wordcount is 624, characters are so much more. In the three thousands.

There should be more to say. About politics, about injustice. There should be more for her to do. She

will always be part of the problem, never be part of the solution. Then again, who is to judge. Who can

judge. These days she gets her philosophies, her ideas about life from starbucks cups and T-shirts.

Words on sweaters and mugs. She writes, she writes. Ponders if what she writes will one day make it

on a mug, on a T-shirt. On a building. Her philosophical mumbo-jumbo should be as good as any. Her

insights, her voice. Well, at least, she ponders a lot these days. Pondering is always good. Will string

you along . To better places, truth, justice, that kind of stuff. Someone will read this eventually. Should.

Might.

The page is coming to an end, people are walking around, waiting for an empty computerstation. She

still has to finish this page and then send it to the printer. And sprint there, before someone takes her

seat. And sprint back. And hopefully avoid a confrontation. Because that would be bad for literature,

for her writing. It might disintegrate into cyberspace. It is boring here and she is out of words.

Outworded. Outbored. Tired. The day is like peasoup.They all are.Here on this long long vancouverday