Ten.Five Hundred & Eighteen
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He beat me here. Claims that he just woke up.
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Thick cut bacon. Eating a banana to hold me over until it’s done and I can eat the scrambled egg with the bacon and some toast.
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Unsalted butter. I sprinkle a little bit of flaky sea salt across the toast. Much better.
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Mt. Diablo as clear as day. Hills dotted with oak trees. The way the clouds make shadows across the land. I need to pay attention to the road but my eyes can’t help but look up and down and all around.
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But where are the computer mice?
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There are still more boxes to unpack. I find the one full of things from Fever Dreams: rose garlands and the bee rattle, died silk and paper. Less than a year to go.
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Artist to artist. It’s funny just how connected you can become to another person through their images and words through this little app. But yeah, we are the 10% we speak about. We are the few who sometimes feel a little odd but also very real.
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Laundry. And laundry. More laundry.
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And now I can buy Sunset Magazine with so much ease.
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He’s wiping his eyes with his napkin and I’m singing Christmas carols which is basically the same thing as crying for me, isn’t it?