I’m slipping a weekend of love and family into what was supposed to be a solid month of writing. I’d love to be writing, I suppose (all things being equal) but it would be difficult to move forward productively without simple human contact, laughing with Evan, kissing Bill, squeezling a cat. I need grounding after all the intensity, or I’ll just keep sparking into the air, whipping around like a live wire.
I feel like Laurie Anderson. Which would take too long to explain. I’ll let her do it.
(It’s a shipwreck! It’s a job! I’m a virus!)