I've become a creature of instinct and duty. Open the bar, walk the dog, make dinner. Iron shirts, sweep floors, tidy the kitchen at night. Smoke, drink, read in between. Time measured in cigarettes, glasses of whiskey, novels. I haven't written a sentence I liked in a long time.
Last night, I walked up the Rossinver road, past sheep grazing in fields between houses, among trees twisted by lightning, the air sweet with the scent of hawthorn blossoms, purple bells, and yellow-cupped flowers. Post flower moon, I wait for a quickening, a fanged awakening of long-buried feelings.