The dishes are done, the lawn is mowed, the sun is setting and my whole world will be turned over to artificial light until morning. My head hurts from words on pages, black on white, always black on white and too high contrast for my heart to take. I've been typing it out, too many thousands of thoughts. It's draining, rearranging my disconnected memories into pretty, perfect lines. The thrill of the chase is wasted when you're not sure if you're the hunter or the hunted, casting nets in the paths of shadows. Stop copying me, stop copying me. I'm writing a book, and the story ends when I turned twenty. Soon, I'll turn thirty. A decade of perspective aught to do it.
May 25, 2017
Beaconsfield, Nova Scotia