i have become a person with a penchant for fake turkey sandwiches.
i leave npr on all day without turning it off and fall asleep to the jazz show, except for thursday nights when they play this god awful dentist office stuff.
i lay my clothes across the top of the banister for the lack of furniture in my room and because i can't be bothered walking into the next room to the armchair and the closet (besides the fact that it is full of windows and i don't want to be improper with the neighbors).
i cry in my sleep.
i receive New York magazine every week and complete as much of the crossword as i can until my roommate takes over and we get 97 percent of the way through.
i continue to compulsively buy books in any shape or form (some things never change).
i sit on the front porch, preferably in the dark, in my rocking chair, listening to the locusts or the rain.
i drink a lot of tea in various flavors and forms. coffee has been reserved for emergencies.
i want to learn Spanish. classes start next week.
i have actually allowed myself to enjoy hiking by myself.
i am writing again, little by little, inch by inch.
1 comment:
write it down, inch by inch.. (there will be another person drumming her fingers up north over her laptop, reading glasses on.)
and on inches:
“I laughed and punched him gently and collected my stuff. Then I went home to continue my life, which had changed a little, as lives do every day, inching by micro specks forward toward whatever surprises are coming next.”
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