Swimming in Justin Timberlake and Macklemore, the cars carry my thoughts toward and away, pulse. Mt. Rainier came out behind clouds yesterday, his presence a grace.
I could pretend to be lost. I could say, I don't know what I'm looking at, where to go.
I bought a Paul Klee self-help book. I also bought a book on how to write about art. I am lapping up Tar Baby and looking out of windows.
I could say I don't deserve, but that isn't it, either. I could say I am sad, still--forgiveness not budging. These are false, too.
I am still in need of The Heist. It's hard to ignore my anxiety regarding framework, thinking the voices messed me up and prevented any kind of movement.