What is the state of your week?

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

Slowly, in a good way. I did one thing properly rather than four badly.

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

It felt like about eleven days.

Long day, early night, and I am content with that trade.

Faster than last month. My weeks have a shape again.

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

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

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

I want to remember that this week was the first one that felt unremarkable.

I would like to have written down by next year that I am still here and still steady.

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.