The Mercy of the Fallen in General

The problem with arbitrary deadlines is that the universe really doesn’t give a fuck.

Yesterday I went up to ‘Salem’s Lot and had a burger with my sister and the folks. Sister is on a plane to Alabama, with a four hour layover at Reagan.

I came home and thought about writing. Went to bed at midnight.

I’ve been waiting for this. I’ve been waiting for two weeks. When am I going to feel this?

Yeah, I got that last night.

I’ll never get to hear her again. I will never overhear her interaction with the public through her blue tooth. No more triumphs. No more tragedies. No more “hey could you take a look at this…”

Just no more.

At three Am I suddenly became concerned about her dog.

I have been at peace with my own mortality for decades. What I didn’t understand was I am completely not at peace with the mortality of the people I love.

It is a cool, blustery day here at the end of the universe. I didn’t sleep last night. That maelstrom of thoughts, some even having to do with the fiction I am trying to write. I made a pot of coffee.

Maybe after a nap I’ll back the car into the driveway and wash her. Mabel Joy.
Drop the heavy bag out of the attic and blast some Metallica. The best antidote to sadness is testosterone.

I don’t know how to process this shit. Because I just don’t process shit. Why in the fuck did it take me two weeks to feel anything? And now that I am, what in fuck am I supposed to do with it?

There’s the wind and the rain,
And the mercy of the fallen,
Who say they have no claim to know what’s right.

Where half-dreams may dream without end.

Nap. Heavy bag. Come to me in sleep and tell me which box I am supposed to put this in, Sandy.