my hand is killing me, yo. more so than anything else in my arm. somehow I see this as a good sign. it's too hot. too hot in this town. too hot in this town to wear my wrist guard. I am rambling. you'd think I'd stop, if I'm in so much pain, since one can't ramble with only one hand or typing with two fingers, standing at the desk to improve the angle at which you reach for the keys. You would think. I'm ready. Let's do this. Until I get home. Then I want to be a tornado. Tornadoes can't write, they can't slow down. They want to dismantle. That's fine. That's all well and good and fine. Maybe I should just stay here after hours. No. No on principle. I could go to the library. They have millions of pages and even computers. But they close before I'd be ready for them to close. I should be driving again. Let's not go that route, that will lead to a conversation about money, one I don't want to have right now, certainly not right NOW. I just had soup for lunch. Soup to nuts. You're nuts. You are a pile of nuts, of filberts, grown only in Oregon. The things I learn.

The things I want.