What did you decide to leave undone?

Fast, because I was busy, which is the only reliable trick I know.

Deliberately left the ironing undone and gained an evening.

A Tuesday that lasted a week.

One hundred weeks of writing these. I only noticed because the archive told me.

This month has gone somewhere and I could not tell you where.

The afternoon disappeared and I am not sure I did anything with it.

Long. Interminable, in fact, and then over all at once at about nine.

The waiting is the thing that takes the time. Fourteen months on a list.

It has taken me eighteen months to get to a version of this that feels ordinary.