Monday, August 31, 2020


I do not know why we speak of bad days. No twenty-four hours is bad on its own; it is just the time of day. This is much the way I lament talk of good and bad people, of good and evil. There seems only the spectrum of cloudy, gray hours and behavior that isn't readily pinned to cork above a label of what it is and excluding all it isn't. I am a joyously tormented human who experience hours of perceived worthlessness, hours of peace and friendship, moments of laughter and insight, and a good portion of the last fifty-five minutes in tears. I thought about my death today. I wondered when it will come and whether or not I will be the instigator. I felt longing. I felt despair. I captured three photographic images within thirty yards of my apartment door. I have embraced my youngest son, texted his three older siblings, enjoyed the wisdom, charm, and intellect of three friends, texted K— that I think she would be better off without me after she again attempted to squelch my voice. I am writing words. I am mercurial. The content will ever change. It was not a bad day. There are no good nor evil people. There is this moment, then this. Then this. Hickory-dickory-doc, the mouse ran up the clock. Vivaldi's Four Seasons through my headphones. I am waiting for sleep, waiting for tomorrow.

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