Dinner with mother. Sunday night. And when that was done, all the Sunday night feelings of the coming week, the coming life. To bed alone, the same old silence, the same anticipated dreams. Waking early, sleepy. . . the same coffee, the same music, the same old complaints. With no reason to be unhappy, there is only the silent nothingness of the coming day.
I open email. Nothing there but a couple lines from Q about his slow-motion agony. I am reminded of a joke I heard in my teens.
"I hear that in New York City, there's a man gets run over every minute," says the first hillbilly.
"I'll sure bet he's tired of that," says the second.
I anticipate some unexpected tragedy or horror. Projection. Imaginative thinking. Too many good things not to, though. The needle runs dry.
Paella and mimosas for brunch. A small, fitful nap. The inevitable departure. Then. . . the usual.
"The days run away like wild horses over the hills. . ." (Buk).
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