His door is opening. It’s way too early for him to be away.

Whispy clouds layered into a sky the color of pink lemonade.

I take my shawl and a cup of tea to the alcove. The sun is in my face. I close my eyes and lower my head and feel the heat. It’s the most perfect kind of fall morning.

I buy the magic stamps. These will be perfect for the little gifts we’re mailing to the Fever Dreamers.

I keep checking Instagram. This is not what I wanted to do.

Laundry and spooky stories. Hot tea and rest. Headache pulsing behind the left eye.

So much sun.

No news is sometimes good news.

Silhouettes of trees against pale blue and green skies.

I just can’t think anymore.