Heavy humid air wraps
round like sodden terry
towel upon my skin.
The outlined cityscape
is blurred through sullen haze.
Apologies... it's small, it doesn't belong here, and wasn't even written today. That was 12 July.
- Watergate! has undergone yet another (small) revision, and after dropping a buck at the copy store, I find myself poised to revisit. I'll try to keep it down this time.
- The Island Project is both reaching a crucial point of frenzy and winding down. I'll soon have time on my hands, perhaps enough to wash them.
- I am mid-read of a fiction, a history/sociology, a set of memoirs, and a punctuation book. My brand-new Vintage Bradbury lies, spine unbroken, waiting. The magazine I purchased at the grocery checkout may be out of date when I get to it. I think this is preparation. Perhaps avoidance.
The car is not yet dead. I'm stalling, hoping against hope to find, for little money, something I'll enjoy driving.
Gracie is not dead. She took a header from a ladder, and is holed up with Coco, refusing to see anyone. Or so Coco says.
The Bombastor is not dead. I have restrained myself. By August's end, it will be all over. I keep repeating.
I'm not dead, but I prowl, ghostly, around the house on silent slippered feet, an irritated cat with tangled fur.