February 1

In the end my bad wifi here in the boondocks of the campus made streaming the movie pretty impossible, so instead we talked. And we've talked every night since then, deeper and deeper into the morning. Last night we didn't stop until two, by which point I had learned that he fell into a bad place after his parents' divorce and almost got involved with a Chicano gang but chickened out of their initiation rite, which involved beating someone up and fucking a girl. He was eleven years old. And he had got me to admit that all my goals are about escape. He drank white wine this time.

Now that I know him better I understand that these conversations are just his way. He has no more interest in me than he does in any other thinking human being, and that's fine. But I dreamed about him after I finally fell asleep last night, the first time I've dreamed about a real person since I was little. I dreamed he helped me pack up my things and move out of this room I haven't left in three days.