378 words yesterday, and as is typical as soon as I get to the end (ish) of writing one novel another one presents itself. begging to be wrote
This is how it presented itself IN THE MIDDLE OF A TB SCENE
Dying gods.
The words echo. The words are not even a map, although they are a key. Words keep destroying our morality. Only deeds restore it. The messages you hear? They’re real. The gods who speak them are real. They’re also dying, and untrustworthy, and malicious as demented fuck.
The feeling when you’ve been given a ‘randomly selected’ opportunity offered by the provincial government to comment on things like racism in BC and you’re the only white people on your block…I mean, there may be other people who are white living on our Street but they do not look that way to me.
Alex again today and tomorrow. I have some stuff I have to do for Paul, wish me luck. Car’s insured. Buster stayed in the doorway looking at him yesterday for 20 whole seconds.
Load of laundry yesterday.
Can’t shake this utterly horrific feeling of impending doom, Pop is home from hospital and yet I can’t stop thinking the worst.
One of the non binary Indigenous people I follow on twitter had an elf-bear-baby on September 3 with their Indigenous love and they just posted a pic of the baby’s elf ear and I am dying of the cuteness. So you can see after posting the above thought I went looking for a styptic against the cuts of the world.
