Somehow, I've been writing every day for the past two months and my hands and fingers and nails have not fallen off or become embarrassingly deformed. Quite the contrary--they're currently painted a sweet tangerine color. Somehow, I've reconnected to one of my all-time loves, at least since I was 14 years old: girls on acoustic. By the way, it's one o'clock in the morning and all kinds of birds are chirping outside all the time. I think it's so cool that they even sing at night. I guess even the birdies work through the night. It is a full moon tonight, so maybe that has something to do with it. Living in an actual house, which is something like 100 years old, I feel at times like I'm not even in a big, polluted metropolis--seems so far away from the cliched stigmas L.A. is so known for: clubs, celebratti, traffic, lifestyles of the rich & the famous, scantily clad girls. I much prefer the closeness of nature, serenity and birds singing to me in the middle of the night. But then, maybe it's because I'm a writer and *naturally partial to hermit-like ambiances.
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