there's this warm front pushing through; fat, disoriented squirrels rustle through the undergrowth, picking at bulbs that are already starting to sprout. the birds know that something seems strange, but the scream their usual early april drama into our open windows.

i, too, feel this dread. i feel the inevitable drag of days, the whistling of minutes, flat tires and torn buttons i don't have the energy to fix, nights that drag on because i've forgotten how to go to sleep, a set of emotions i know how to enact so i do that. i, too, cache supplies for myself in places i've lost track of, friends i do not remember, dreams that drifted too far.

but i'm still here. winter is half-through.

12 January 2018 16:25

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