at strawberry fields in urbana this afternoon, reading an excerpt from plath's notebooks, my heart aching so much that i could hardly stand it...her words bare and raw and sad...i remembered amy in her towel, sitting on the bed of that hotel in downtown athens, crying and crying...rod with a wet towel on his head, sick from the trip back from heraklion the night before, standing on the balcony with the drifter who asked if we were planning to paint the acropolis before telling us to get a grip already...the time was already slipping by so quickly and we had no idea...and no matter how many years pass by, there she is with us...laughing and carefree and and pained and careless, the old man at the shop at the edge of the bazaar in matala noting that he felt that i was different somehow, watching, watching the world through my pen, and what was it that made me so sad...all of us, deciding everything and nothing, sitting in the dark at the tables outside illuminated by the innkeeper's television showing re-runs of chips in greek...and god what scared me so, what scares me so?