Earlier in the night I stood in the kitchen, looking down at a short unserated kitchen knife, but some things do change. I'm 26. Now when I look at the knife, it isn't just casual self-harm, not just a diversion; what I imagine is peeling my arm like an apple.

But we are old hat at that mess. I saw in my mind the words I wrote to Daniel about Disa: I respect that she is aware of how there are safe and unsafe times to self-destruct. I flipped open my phone and scripped through the list of my contacts for someone who might still be awake-- feeling so lonely, feeling also helpless but not stupid.

Finding no one, I dressed warmly, bundled up my shiznit and my Rilke and hightailed it to the Perkins.

I turned out to be the only patron at brightly-lit PK tonight; the cooks all hung out at a booth in the smoking section; the usual tape of lite rock and oldies was turned down and replaced by hip-hop blaring from the kitchen. I flirted with the manager, I flirted with my server, a kind lovely smiling woman with red frizzy hair. I drank hot tea with lemon and toast with jam, and a couple of hours passed.

Again and again, I opened my cell phone to check my e-mail, feeling more desolate every time; and I thought about sending an e-mail out, but to whom? About what? Who is obligated to listen to my panic, and what is accurate?

I thought about sending simply "I love you," to Daniel-- the only useful thing I ever said to the man, and maybe even that is useless-- or "I'm not well" to Disa, who already knows I'm not well and who is not well herself, who is acquainted with the patterns of wellness; or "can't sleep" to Devon, who is fast asleep in the next room and who depends on me for domestic quotidian steadfastness.

And anyway, all of those things are true but none of them is the matter. I think that what I suffer from, more than anything, is intellectual frustration. The dot and line do not meet up.

At 3 o'clock in the morning, the caffeine from the tea set in-- or possibly for other reasons, a feeling of well-being settled on me. I checked my e-mail again and felt only peaceful. Not lonely. Thus I write.

1. It's time for us to make a change. Deadline for finishing our bedroom, a drastic haircut and maybe a new tattoo. Stop being so angry. Cut off all rotted limbs and remember what Rilke has told us:

Those who are near you are far away, and this shows that the space around you is beginning to grow vast. And if what is near you is far away, then your vastness is already among the stars and is very great; be happy about your growth, in which of course you can't take anyone with you, and be gentle with those who stay behind; be confident and calm in front of them and don't torment them with your doubts....

Believe in a love that is being stored up for you like an inheritence, and have faith that in this love there is a strength and a blessing so large that you can travel as far as your wish without having to step outside it.

2. This is how it all ends, if you want to know: In the last act I will return to the person I was at eleven years old. Pulling into the Lion's Club Park, I let go my very last sigh of relief. Memories blanch, and there it ends, just as it began; alone again, after all this time, bent at the creek, lost in daydreams.