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Sleep paralysis is not a plot device used by some dark gods to fuck up my night, my morning, my life.  I know what it is now, and I can fix it. (Furthermore,  I really didn’t need to recall  the “Sad Keanu” meme. It’s a bullshit way to start the morning.)

I like my strawberries room-temperature. My mouth crackles as I eat them, and I am grateful for this pleasant stimulus today as I walk along the edge.

Jackie is due in three weeks, and all I can think is that time moves so slowly, and so fast.

I lit a candle to honor the grief of someone I do not know. It only makes me feel better.

I watch a tiny black beetle who barely fits inside a window screen square make his way here and there. What is he looking for?

He found a message in a bottle on the beach that holds a child’s pain.

I’m the priest in that story who never wanted to hear music again because it’s all just noise compared to the singing of angels he once heard.

Loud generators, the bump and clank of hand trucks moving sofas past my window, and a door slam are not plot devices used by some dark gods to fuck up my fragile mood and ambitions. It’s called life, lady. Better get used to it.