Ten.Five Hundred & Seventy-One
No dream that I can remember.
Sink full of dishes. I still don’t want to do them.
We do this almost everyday and still I look back to ask him a question when I get to the stoplight. I realize that this is a very tiny taste of an empty nest: looking and looking for those mouths of those voices and remembering that they are gone.
Coffee and this corner.
“To Reach Japan.” Greta is me and I am Greta and damn, this is such a beautiful story.
The sun feels good against the skin. We decide it might be best to not travel down this road. Hawk on the treetop.
“When everything, everything, everything you touch turns to gold, gold, gold, gold.”
But it’s really like a hazy dream and there’s no other way to describe it. My eyes swell up just a bit as I descend into the valley, lavender and pale orange skies behind a silhouette of mountains.
I read him a paragraph from “Tropic of Cancer.” No wonder it was banned.