So this is Christmas. Not really. This is dark and damp. Depressing as that one-legged lamp. As fun as a screen door in a jumbo jet.

Waking up is hard to do. Some diseases, like wealth, are hard to catch. Throw the pin, hold the grenade. Either way the point is made.

Drive all night.

Evacuate when the sound goes off. Like someone coming home. Like talking to you. Like making a macrame owl. Like not leaving you alone. Like the bitter end.

I could have danced all night. Not really. There is no partner. A plantless toolless gardener growing nothing but this economy. An upswing is needed.

Sit up all night, thinking…