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9:32 p.m. - 2001-05-25 This phrase all of a sudden rushes to me in a swirl of gray after the fire last night, after I followed the sparks. It looked like fog over the water, slipping over the wood. At the park I couldn't see the actual fog; I could only see the duplicate at home, outside, in the fire. She says trying to catch me is like trying to grasp a flame. All that's left is ash on her fingers. I just typed god trying to type fog. They came up the hill and didn't offer us any of their drugs. I think the other two wanted them to, but he was shivering and he is never cold, not even when the frost drips from his hair and his fingers freeze within mine; as mine are always cold. Of course he usually pulls away; my fingernails are silver and ripped apart. All six of us the night before were almost as instinctive as we've ever been, inside the wood and the hundred plus degrees, like in the heart of an oak. I didn't reach to hide my shoulders and she didn't cover her legs. The other four were stretched out, commanding space and open to the darkness and the warmth; I didn't feel like bursting out, not into the cold, not onto the hard stone floor, not into the questions or the chiding of rough air. Nothing is as smooth as a dry warmth in a wood cavern, nothing makes my body shine like a calm immobility. For the first time his own warmth was indistinguishable from the rest. They tumbled out like bubbles from a bottle and they fell over each other into the shower of ice. I put my hands out and felt the wood that I was sitting on, and pushed myself up; my feet shook and my legs would not hold and the ground was a terrible rescue from her hands under my shoulders, pushing me out into the wall of cold blue air. He splashed water over the rocks and the steam hissed out and over the wood, while I was not yet in and not yet realizing that I could not stand up and get out.
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