the dog mooching by my desk. Small paws and pound survivor guilt in that wan look. A soft pink line, not even severe enough to warrant ragged, all that I can see of her cancer.
words words words. Not tumbling but certainly more than stumbling. Out.
he realised, as if surprised, that he doesn’t know the first thing about what his son is interested in. Not, he hastened, that he didn’t know what his son was interested in – music and games, deeply – but that he knows nothing about them.
a scrap of coffee, deep inside the cup, rediscovered
essay I sort of said yes to, then not really no but by not sending the email asked to the address indicated was that sort of shuffling look at the floor undergraduate moment of saying no without actually taking the responsibility to say no. And now it is expected. An essay sprint is unfolding. Three things can happen next. The work is shit. I write something of value but, since it is the essayist’s version of ex tempore it lacks sufficient citation to get by. I learn how to stop burrowing quite so much and just write out what I think and know and leave it at that, and it works. Opportunity, as they say.
pungent, the pall of stale cigarette acrid as he sits in front. She drips in and out of sleep puffy eyed swallow shallowed attention. The train stops and with a softness that sits abruptly against my smugness he taps her thigh as enough to let her stumble awake and shuffle off. His glance, making sure, is patient.
it’s a mess of essays falling due a book stalled curriculum design staff wrangling impending travel presentations to be written new projects emerging novelty stochastics and ennui
his glasses are too broad and insist upon minor stuttering steps until they happen to find a flare of nostril