Tiny insect vibrates with life around my one quarter-empty coffee cup; it, the mug, is my favorite, made of smokey brown transparent glass, a family heirloom from the eighties.
Cat stalks a morsel of a lizard across the soaked, soggy lawn to beneath he bedraggled lemon tree that used to be the joy of my life.
My thesis yanks the chains at my desk and crooks it's skeletal finger at me: get your ass here, you're almost done.
Cross-legged like an effete gentleman on the outside storm-battered couch, dampness seeps into my T-shirt and shorts...the rain, unusually, came in horizontally under the verandah last night.
Stef's fountain gurgles, chortles, much happier than me.
Sunday's are for my rest, but not this one.
Lee sends a picture of his brown legs, and writes from Zinkwasi that the fish-eagles are calling from the lagoon. I'll have to go and see.
The lines around my eyes are deep today, as are the black smudges encircling my sad puppy dog eyes; black stubble weeds and wends its way up my face threading to enforest me. Yes, new word, don't Google it, yet.
The sharp, bright red of the pineapple sage flowers hammer and nail hope into me upon my crucifixion.
I am not the living dead
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