it's a great life, if you don't weaken (matociquala) wrote,
it's a great life, if you don't weaken

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stop your crying. let it burn.

167.4 miles to Lothlorien. I have turned back from Redhorn Pass, and it's looking more and more like I'm going to have to pass through Moria. Here in Connecticut, wisteria are blooming, and lilacs are headed to their peak. Spring is rapidly becoming summer.

I did go out for a two mile walk this morning (in deference to my sore toe, I walked only.)

And now it is a little after 11, and I have written 501 words and fed myself a ploughman's lunch (bread, cheese, onions, olives, pickles, oranges, some cold leftover pork) and made some rooibos to see me through until it's time to go to the climbing gym. (I do not know how much I will be climbing, but I will at least drive down, show up, and put in some effort. I may stick to the slab, in deference to all the ways I m old and sore. But hey, I can belay.)

And now I am thinking about what this next 500 words needs to accomplish, other than Sebastien wangsting about how old he is. At least he is--unlike many angsty vampires--old enough to have earned some angst.

The cat is very fascinated by the busy monkeys working to clear out the burned house across the street.


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