Ten.Seven Hundred & Thirty-Four
It’s still gone.
I must have waited too long to eat. Every bit elicits a painful pang in the gut. Or maybe I just can’t eat donuts anymore.
Coffee in the little blue mug. Not enough before a day of work.
The New Yorker Fiction Podcast. I finish the one of Emma Cline reading her latest work.
I like being outside the best.
I like rules. Rules help contain chaos. Other people don’t like rules when the rules interfere with the desires of the ego.
I sit in the car and make the phone calls. One wants pictures so that they can cross-reference. Another wants to make sure I’m local. The other I have to to force to take down a description and my name. But that’s something. At least I’ve done something.
A piece of me is still missing.
He reminds me that it’s just an object.
But a piece of me is still missing.