A Broken Horse of a Man

Brendan fell asleep in the car while we drove home from his grandparents. I had to carry him upstairs, slowly change his clothes, and carefully place him in the correct position of his bed so the nightlight did not shine full on his face. Briefly he looked up at one point confirming who I was, establish his surroundings, and he then fell into a deeper sleep. • Reading Bukowski again. He does not improve my mood. His writings show him as a broken horse of a man—his persona that is—the bitterness stings, even now. Even with the safe distance of the decades between us.

Not much has changed since then.
Much has changed since then.

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And all I know is the fact I have lost a sense of my projects and my notes and my reasons for writing. Too many distractions. Too many daily interruptions. Need to find a sense of satisfaction again.