The sound of the sprinklers. It sounds like rain but I know it’s not rain. Even half asleep I know that it’s the sprinklers.

She says she didn’t adjust the heat on the pan but I know she did.

Open all the windows. Let the cool air in.

I don’t want to go but I know I have to.

Maybe it’s his voice. Maybe it’s the sincerity in his voice. The honesty in his voice. But I’m driving through the hills and listening to him read his own words, my eyes filling up with water.

I am now reminded of what it means to be a poet. That maybe that is really what this life is about.

“Just ask it questions, and you’ll find out what you’ve really been thinking. So what I’m saying is, we bring to language whatever we’re already thinking about, and our job is to really find out, to dig, and see, “What do I really think? What am I really —” — that’s what I’m trying to do while I’m writing.” - Jericho Brown

Surprisingly slow.

I tear up again.

Overwhelmed.