Notes from the Post-it Wall | Week of August 7, 2022
My backyard is home to very depressed worms. I keep finding sun-dried worm corpses on my walkway. And not even after a hard rain—as they might be flooded to the topsoil. It’s like they just have had enough of being a worm living underground and wriggle to the surface for that long-elusive moment of warmth before being cooked to death.
Eighty-Four and The Greatness of Happenstance
I go because I want to be somewhere doing something. I really like trying new things. But more importantly at this time, I’m lugubrious and lonely and I feel hollow all the time. My heart seems to have perpetually taken on the shape of a wrenched gut, and I live with a hoarder.
There was no thunder, no glowing doorway, no mysterious wind blowing through the apartment, and no choir of angels politely alerting me that physics had submitted its resignation.
The deck simply felt heavier.