Sunday afternoon. I’ve arrived at my back porch–finally! Coffee brewed, cigarette lit (I’m lit), journals out. I had four hours of sleep last night. Five the night before. Been up since 730am. (I see so many sunrises and sunsets, so close… I’m not sure what day it is.) I’m wide awake.
I haven’t been home in two weeks. Stayed in PA, I dropped my luggage off her without unpacking and took a nap, then drove off to see… someone. (Oh, someone!) And since Monday had been in hiding with him.
So… You wanna hang?
Sure. It’s the answer every time. But after a week I feel week. I’m amazed at my physical body. How can it keep up with me? (I barely can.) I don’t feed it or give it enough water.
I feel like a nomad. Like a dirty dirty hobo. Sleeping in beds that aren’t mine. And my beatup 2002 Hyundai my trusty steed.
(Aren’t we a sight?)
But I’m finally here. Back home. In my favorite spot on my favorite day. It is Sunday, June (wait, lemme check…) 26th.