Ten.Two Thousand, One Hundred & Seventy-Five
Slow Sunday.
I lean over my legs and grunt. Everything is so tight.
Someone moved the furniture. But the table is still out there. And so is the rug. I make a mental note to move those, too.
There are very few cars on the trail this morning. The words are still wet, and vibrant yellow leaves are plastered to the ground.
Making tally marks.
I could go to sleep right now.
There are only three more weeks until Christmas. Three more weeks. I am not ready.
There are still no lights on the tree.
Uninspiring.
One more game, and then I’ll go to bed.