I slowed down just enough this winter. Gravity stopped pushing down on me quite so hard. I could feel myself detach and float away. Disconnected from brain, without a heartanchor. Every day blurring into a greasy smear of pastel regrets and geriatric paint thinner. The rightfulness of grief brushed away like a low hanging rain cloud. There's a certain neotenous pleasure to be had in dabbling in the currency of children. There's always the unyielding discipline of wage-slave work to come back to. And two hundred pounds of iron is always just two hundred pounds of iron.

11:38 a.m. - 2017-03-13