Argle.

I do not feel morningfresh. I feel jetlagged.

And Resisting, heavily, the show of force I am going to have to make to put one little toe in fron t of the other, towards the door and work.

I'd change my clothes but I've got nothing to wear here. Almost all of my clean clothes are at Her house; though arguably that has a lot to do with the fact that She has a washer and a dryer. This morning I walked towards work with her as far as my house, came in, kissed my cat and sat to stare at you.

I am too bloody tired to think or speak.

But the making of love and the making of money -- those are instinctive and imperitive. It's almost a sin to be too tired for either. You could almost go to hell.

Ah, why do I sound bitter again? Because the six-day state of grace that had descended upon me hath now abated? Damn. Damn damn damn...

But Stephen is home, mercifully, and will get me tenderly through the day. Things to be done, as always.

Always.

"Well, you can't have everything!" As Andre said last night.

Why does everything feel like the ability to sleep till noon?

tell you why. Last night, I flew. I can still feel the hollow places where wings go in my shoulderblades.

Gods, my sweet gods, I want to go back to sleep.

<<agé chose>>

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