disturb not her dreams
i've just spent six hours making sock monkies with my mother's friends.
there's been this strange desire building in me all week to run away, to venture north to bare limestone and deep water. if i can manage it, somehow, i'll go there this week on a day off with a peanut butter and banana sandwich and a book about the dead, waiting to see if i can make sense or clarity out of the here and now.
the leaves are all beginning to change and i'm feeling restless, displaced by this, my first september in nineteen years that doesn't involve newly sharpened pencils or reading lists.
i feel like i should read homer, or maybe some plato.
[but not heidegger. never, ever again will i read heidegger. ever].