What can I say but this picture gives me the greatest joy? Breakfast At Tiffany's is a masterpiece.

Truman Capote is genius and I am in love with him.

Capote's words read like magic. His language is so engaging, so honest and heartfelt...his descriptions so vivid, so bright, so alluring. I am swept up into the world he weaves.

The movie is quite different to the novella however they both enchant me.

Audrey Hepburn is such a delight to feast your eyes upon.
I am going to read 'In Cold Blood' after I have finished reading 'The Pickwick Papers' by Dickens. I love Dickens too. I absolutely love him. These writers are my friends, perhaps my only friends. Oh, I know that sounds bad and I do have people who care about me but when Michael - well, I can't bring myself to say it..but when that happened only a few people were there. They know who they are so there is no point in scribbling down a petty little list (and anyway, aren't I petty enough?) but when all is said and done, it hurt like hell. But what hurts the most is that these people who I considered my friends didn't even: CORRECTION, don't even realize what Michael means to me. Not even the slightest. Of course I do not expect anyone to...but these were close friends. People who could have - who SHOULD have picked up the telephone and said a few, kind words. They didn't. And now it has been six months and two days since I have heard from any of them.
Forgive me for being petty. Forgive me for being childish. I mean it's not as though I even want to hear from them anyway. Am I lying? Fooling and deluding myself to make myself feel better when I know deep down I desperately want one of them to call? That I lie awake at night scrunching my pillow up between my clenched fists and panting, awaiting such a call? That I run to my mobile each day in hope of a text message that could not say anything to make me feel better anyway? That all I think about day and night is how I want to be part of that group again? That I fill my days with false hope and make believe games? How I want to feel loved and precious and artistic again? Well not exactly...but every so often I do think about them.