Sunday completed, but passively like casual noticing of longer evenings. My time at work was dominated by thoughts of leaving (arriving to leave) and of how to write a novel.
The reading of the book is not the spelling of the name. There is a formation within the higher facets of extended prose, a building up that must occur within before even approached upon paper. It requires humour and experience and paper. I seldom write upon paper at the moment, frightened of the finality. I, who loves understatement, never want to think of this again.
I was full of words earlier, now I can barely move.
Phone call on the way to work was beautiful. I wait to show and share, to allow another (another being right here, he is another me) to move in my lines, to trail in gulleys worn through repetition, not just to prove some worth but for the insight that he will inevitably bring.
I am exhausted. It is all the talk of leaving. I showered after work, long enough to clean me, not long enough to wake me and as Italian beer settles through me, easing my tendons and inebriating my sinews and synapses, I read and laugh and slow until I come to a death only revived by sleep.