I find myself standing in my room, narrating out loud to no one the fact that I am thirsty, instead of going and getting myself the glass of water I’ve been wanting for the last hour at least.
The day is not going like it was supposed to.
The day is going well.
Hot, is it hot where you are? There were breezes last week but it’s dead still now. Out back it’s a killing field. They run rampant, though the brick and the piece of wood keep yowly out, haven’t seem him strumming his banjo for weeks.
Rufus sided towhee, a different one.
What is my hour worth? What is my word price? Why am I still thirsty?