Ten.Five Hundred & Eighteen
He beat me here. Claims that he just woke up.
Thick cut bacon. Eating a banana to hold me over until it’s done and I can eat the scrambled egg with the bacon and some toast.
Unsalted butter. I sprinkle a little bit of flaky sea salt across the toast. Much better.
Mt. Diablo as clear as day. Hills dotted with oak trees. The way the clouds make shadows across the land. I need to pay attention to the road but my eyes can’t help but look up and down and all around.
But where are the computer mice?
There are still more boxes to unpack. I find the one full of things from Fever Dreams: rose garlands and the bee rattle, died silk and paper. Less than a year to go.
Artist to artist. It’s funny just how connected you can become to another person through their images and words through this little app. But yeah, we are the 10% we speak about. We are the few who sometimes feel a little odd but also very real.
Laundry. And laundry. More laundry.
And now I can buy Sunset Magazine with so much ease.
He’s wiping his eyes with his napkin and I’m singing Christmas carols which is basically the same thing as crying for me, isn’t it?