It’s rainy and dreary today, but I find that I don’t mind it. I only wish I were in a secret garden somewhere, sitting on a swing, reading something romantic, sad, and English.

 I don’t like New York City. I’m just not that kind of girl. I feel that there is no corner in this entire city that could hold the sort of quiet that I crave.

In times like this, passages like these makes me want to weep with joy, frustration, and something else I can’t quite place.