Two weeks into a 40th year, under the most ideal of conditions—a great woman in my heart, another great woman in my ears, and generally keeping towards horizons. Tonight I wanted to scream into the abyss of shaken confidence, and nonsensical mistrust in my own capabilities and strengths. The void, or the afterword, can leave behind a trail of ruin that is thorny at best with clear demarcations, or utterly grown over and all you can do is watch the sun move across the sky and wonder “why?”

The watch kept time in irregular patterns, speeding with each vulgarity, slowing in each exhalation, yet all netting to the same rhythms we’ve agreed upon.

Waning Gibbous

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