118. Mr. Scribbles.


The night is icy and cold and sharply happy-sleepy. New coats (David Tennant, writing is not speech!) and wonderful loves and still no essay, still dramatic parentness and two hours of werk that felt like eight. Swimming and layers and the loom is coming! Ramblers and the big-kid feeling of eating at the bar alone, sweet tater fries and laundry is going, can’t sleep.

But of course I will.


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