Today I want to open a book and let my stress leak onto its pages. I want to drink a sip of Cabernet to drown the churning thing in my stomach. With a book's dry feathered pages flopping under my thumb, I will find the phrase I remember from yesterday, and start again my nightly process of shoving all the shit out of my head, transplanting another world of voices, people, and words into a space bulging with anxiety.
As January 31 faded into the first day of February during the dark hours at night where secrets, myth, and lore play and we fail to see, light would soon chase them away. Snow fell again on frozen branches. Birds still chirped as the snow turned to a misty drizzle. Little lunatics.
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