Two days in, and I've begun losing track of time. A jigsaw puzzle appears in one end of the little cabin, the mint green typewriter is sprawled on a dining table. I spend the day clearing the upstairs of dead flies, not particularly inspiring nor, it turns out, gratifying, but the coating of lemon-scented floor cleaner lets you sink one step deeper into a house that is as much of a home as you have, right now. You begin to learn the schedule of the deer, as you lose track of your own. Surely there are things you ought to be doing.
Your desire to run off into the woods
and not know when you'd return to civilization
is stronger than ever.
I read three books a day now, lie in the tall grass staring up at blue skies, rediscover old stories I never finished telling, Stephen King says you should spend 4-6 hours a day reading and writing, and I wonder if he remembers what it was like not to have money for rent. I stare at October, think maybe I buy myself another month.
Think maybe I'm trying to buy myself a whole other life.
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