things fall apart. they do. it's called life.
dwelling on them, those broken pieces in your hand? why?
it's 8:23 on saturday morning. i can't sleep. i'm going to make an omelette with ham, cheese, green yellow red peppers, and onions. my breath is going to stink and i'm going to greet the day, converse with the wind with my breathing rhythms.
i'm going to wheeze, because i am out of shape. it will probably burn.
at 10, i have a hair appointment. she's trimming my dead ends. i'm probably going to jet over mil's house and go to lunch somewhere. food is my anti-drug.
hopefully it won't rain. i'm ready to see the sun.
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