This place has provided me with nothing to write. Today he is out in that city trying to find a job while I am here trying to remember why I keep this notebook of days. The existence of all these pages makes me feel as if I have been keeping up endless conversations with myself. Well if that fact alone doesn’t prove my feeble state of mind I don’t know what will. He doesn’t actually believe that I am sick. He used to tell me every day at the Gardens that I really was ok and that someday we would live far away and everything would be quite perfect; just us, our philosophies, and strange sorts of music. It is sort of odd now how he tries to diagnose my state, I guess medical school sort of forced him to want a label for everything. Most often he tells me that I am very strong just fragile…I wonder how that makes much sense? We are much the same in our gypsy souls, so if I were to be sick than I think he would too. Sometimes I can hardly believe that we have only been married a month, for we have been together for so long. I remember those enduring days in the Gardens when everything was always the same except for when we were together. And I will never forget the morning we unlocked the gate and left that place forever. How I enjoy these days when those memories seem much further away and I can laugh at the pathetic walls. I especially love the days in which I feel well, the times that encourage me to bring something homemade to one of my unknown neighbors (I still have yet to meet one). Yes, I believe that day shall come soon. I think if may come very soon because today I drank half the glass of water.