Mysteries and Cardboard Rockets
Long day. Yet. A short day. The hours twisted within themselves.
For three hours: arranged mailings, submissions, inquiries. Then collected Brendan from school. Had lunch. Napped for two hours— Brendan in a rebellious state of mind—but he slept nonetheless.• —and, suddenly, just like that: I am without words. Without expressions or colloquial insight to spiral out of this labyrinth.
No golden thread. I blame last night’s sleeping pattern. I blame tomorrow’s schedule. It (this mood, this situation of language-void) it all can be attributed to a number of diverse problems hovering overhead: angry hornets. Stinging bees. Disgruntled Furies. Biting flies.• Sometimes, rambling works its way along a path to a sense of resolution. Not tonight. Too much to work on—feeling overwhelmed.
For three hours: arranged mailings, submissions, inquiries. Then collected Brendan from school. Had lunch. Napped for two hours— Brendan in a rebellious state of mind—but he slept nonetheless.
Woke. Ran around the house. Games. Running chases. Mysteries. Cardboard rockets. Castles made from cushions.
Sometimes, rambling works its way along a path to a sense of resolution.
No golden thread. I blame last night’s sleeping pattern. I blame tomorrow’s schedule. It (this mood, this situation of language-void) it all can be attributed to a number of diverse problems hovering overhead: angry hornets. Stinging bees. Disgruntled Furies. Biting flies.
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