It might be time to do this--so, my counter tops are clean. Well semi-clean. It is more the thoughts of my counter tops that can not be clean. Can you imagine the filth--and it is all too familiar--considering what goes on there. Is it realistic?

The newly minted counter top can be clean (I suppose) after the workman's hands have finished their work--but it is still the counter top. This place is dirty. Is there a self-help book for this?

If we were talking the other day, you may have heard me talk about my exhaustion--bone tired--but I would not have said it that way. I would have said, "tired" but not overly so. I felt it. I looked it, so she says. Head on the pillow. Life lived between the sheets--it was missing me. But now it is come.

Easy to imagine but hard to believe when it is upon you. Is this the kiss of the nevermore?
The sweet succor of sleep and sheets.

Here is a deep and suspect tangent--my bloody father. It has been half my life since we last spoke. I feel like a sucker. It is his time, and not mine to regret. I feel compelled to make him recognize that I know. One man of no value. Of no redeeming qualities. This is my legacy. Weep not for the harlequin fool he may be. This may occupy me for awhile. I should meditate on this and see what it brings.

All remains. . . well