Peter made French toast
and bacon. It was all
good, including the hot
nightmares. Of nature,
horseback riding through
the Fort Chaffee brambles,
a bistro in Le Marais, and
postcards from Stephanie.
Sure, I am enjoying the book
and READING. There are
such lost arts. The dog’s
barking is more distant
than usual. The barking
is further away. The noises
in my head are able to talk
to each other this afternoon.
Is it because I am so sober
today? If so, theories will
evaporate. The orange sofa
cover is so filthy. I keep
scrutinizing it. For some-
thing to remember.
