- I miss this.
- Skimming across the last four years, I watch my patterns shift. Where summers once were borderline-manic frenzies of productivity, they’re now creatively fallow but connectively rich—laying seed for harvesting in fall and spring.
- Winter still blows, though.
- I am oddly comfortable in the silence. The tissue of my soul flushes and plumps as it quenches a long-ignored thirst.
- “They’re never going to take those, bro,” I murmur to myself. “You’re gonna need some tags.”
- I’m grateful to be sweating in September.
- She cries in front of us—total strangers—eyes brimming with years of isolation and wondering if they’ll be okay, if she’s scarred them for life. She fits right in.
- Another round.
- I hate that my initial reaction to her strong emotions is annoyance. Where does that come from? Where am I hurt so badly?
- Half a glass. Any time I pour wine, I wonder if it’s good or bad. I wonder what her thoughts would be.
Of saddles uneasily sat in again, trash day, and other people’s stuff.