Chopped a cord of wood yesterday, a standing tree now puzzle-pieced stacked under a sheet of tin. Mostly slept through the night. The new cat Nina come into my room yowling at 5. Not sure she wanted to be let out, but she was. First cat I've known who doesn't bury poo. Just lays it steaming stink on top of the litter. Hauled ashes from the stove and stoked it.
Romantic love, like french fry love; either all consumed and soon again hungry, or goes cold, flaccid and greasy. Not worthy of the moniker "love", but so much of our language intentionally confuses and deludes more than it communicates.
Truth is silent, puzzle-piece stacked under a sheet of tin, waiting for the fire.



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