Everyone here is very good at gutting fish. The Estonians shared their wine with me last night; the Belorussians are throwing a party tomorrow night. I’m not going to see Sparks playing across town tonight because $26 plus cab fare is too much money to pay to maaaaaaybe hear “Moon Over Kentucky.” I may have given myself pneumonia by riding to the sea to watch kite-surfers ride waves that seemed so very angry. I’ve eaten three red poppies; unfortunately, this is the name of a candy here.

Today the house director killed a massive squash. Every night, a murder of crows shrieks in the square. If I weren’t so terrified to be alone, I’d put on some Goblin every time this happened. It would all seem very correct.

Today: eight pages of translation, and I’m not even done for the night.