(Later)

The burn mark on my arm begins to peel. It looks a little like a Superman badge. I don't dress all day. When the dog begins pacing, I simply drape myself in a long winter coat and a knit hat and no one on the street can tell there isn't much underneath. Temperatures have dropped; we walk with hurried steps around the block and he seems as relieved as I when we return.

I spend the evening with a storm in my head: gathering clouds and dark whirlwinds. I write in my journal If I am going to be alone, and poor, and so tragically sad, then at least I want to produce some magic in the process.

The night is lighter after that. The storm arranges itself into decipherable language.

Despair is easier to digest
on paper.