The light throws me. When it snows, the light as the sun rises, hidden, has a blue cast. The coverlet of snow is blue. But the mind says white. I feel like there's a wall between my eyes and my brain, contrary information only getting through refugee fashion. This is the way things are. In my dream, I wrote to Sophia: "spies don't only investigate what they're curious about, they also investigate what scares them or bores them."
The grind, the bulk of plow trucks going up and down 112. Robins dark, undeterred by the snow. What choice do they have. Where the hill crests in Chesterfield four deer - does - their skin sliding over their ribs, eyes jittery, crazy with hunger, yet bounding away when I slowed, over the stone wall into someone's back yard to graze near a swing set. It's not shooting one I don't get, but rather the gutting after, "the real work," Todd says laughing, and then carrying the carcass out to where. Me and my guns is like me and New York City. I don't feel like explaining.
Last night the computer didn't work for Jeremiah. What does Susun Weed say about anger, if anything. No, what do you say. Yet I slept fine, no problems, and dreamed of those who don't ever return my waves, or do but only sometimes. Running for office is like asking people to say they like you or they don't like you and who wants to learn this, see the hard data. My teeth won't bear dried apples, yet more evidence that the end is nigh, or nigh-er than it was yesterday. But when wasn't that true.