+374 story words.
All over the damn map. Hungry, headachey, super-duper hyperchondriacal, sad, relieved, earnest, kind of in the belly of a brief depressive episode, and now, having written just a brief bit, I feel back up to some sort of par.
My grandfather is going to go back to the nursing home and into hospice care. My father is home. We’re all sharing and writing and waiting for nobody knows when, for the perfect time, I guess.
We had a wasp in the house which has turned out to be the emissary for the wasp’s nest outside our balcony. We are all quite disturbed by this. We did not take refuge in the nearby pizza joint nor the chicken wing shack. Instead, some sort of light Asian fare I’m saving half of for tomorrow.
I am contemplating diets. It feels petty to care and hatefully wasteful and dangerous not to.
Tomorrow’ll be a good one. Right?
We can sail, we can sail, with the Orinoco flow.