There's this pile of postcards by my bed, and in my body, it's 2 p.m., as if for the last seven weeks I've lived beyond the dateline, over in Asia again.
The postcards are waiting, along with the uncounted … scroll and scroll and scroll … e-mails waiting for my attention, for conversion, for legitimacy, a notation of this-is-important, though nothing is important.
Tasks we take on in hopes of what —
(Mommy, it hurts so much.)
Curb Girl: what an urban-based accidental journalist accidentally thinks when she's falling face-first on figurative pavement
1 comment:
Doing what you're doing... with what in effect is nite shift work.. is the hardest thing for we humans to do. You're body clock is desperate to sync with sunny times... give notice at the stamping plant and start looking for other daytime, fulltime work.
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