if the ink, that will not come home (conversations in the rain from squiggly street to the palace and then back in the morning )

I forgot my pen at work again. The paper I always leave home. The frustration is illustrative... In that I also would not buy a new pen until this morning and now things are moving along once again, I can make plans and not forget them, I can speak to Merlin and write on the backs of post cards and mark the progress of my exercise routines, but still I'd like to smash the pen against a wall with my work-boots just to maintain the metaphor's relevance. I bought a spare just in case. I've been known to become violent towards my writing tools. Sentences. Stories. Letters.

I sent my information across an imaginary plane. A woman in Austin who knows my sister from somewhere. Gears are turning in some intended direction. And I am drinking chocolate-flavored protein again, from a mug, and I am hiding from my camera. I found a picture of a ghost on the last roll, either someone invisible brought halfway to the eye or someone living being forced into the aether, and now I'm afraid the lens might be haunted.

The Canadian and the Jamaican commiserated over rum. I lingered a bit with the Maker's Mark before joining in. There will be a baseball game in July, in the port city, and I have said I would join there as well. I'm not sure you care to know, but I only know how to tell you things, not how to take them away or make them interesting.