Not that long disease, my life, but that long convalescence, my life. The liberal-bourgeois revision, the illusion of improvement, the poison of hope.
‘Nother long Friday. Friday’s are long up here. Not much to do. Baked meatloaf for dinner. Then I baked a cake. Talked to Nadia. Painted. Wrote. Read. The cycle continues.
Perhaps someday will come. That someday in which things are completed or begun or get into full swing. Perhaps tomorrow will be someday, perhaps the next, perhaps someday.