the cats are alright. drifting in place up here on the 15th floor. the realm is calm, or seemingly so up here. i started reading the journal of rosemary mayer. i'll go back and forth between her and her sister bernadette. bernadette is still living. her book is more constructed art and rosemary's is written as a diary. though she likely knew it would be read someday. writing is self consciousness and intended to be read, maybe after the writer's dead, but the writing and the reading meet in the present.