Ten.Two Thousand, One Hundred & Fifty-Six
4:08 a.m.
That was not a good sleep.
Maybe if I write about it, I will feel better.
I write about it. I feel better. The light filtering through the morning fog gives the room a soft glow.
Avoiding the real work by making homemade tomato soup and croutons. Getting that done will help me write better, right?
Sales calls.
I tell her the contents of the last 16 hours of my days, and she is aligned. So grateful that we get each other. What would I do without her?
Always the same.
He asks me if it’s homemade. I tell him it is. “Why,” I ask. “It tastes really good.” And that one comment is why the procrastination was worth it.
Two days.
