This week I had to admit to a hole in my soul. I don't mind so much as I'm surprised by it. It woke me early every morning, fighting a rising sense of dread.

Also, this week the boy seems to have discovered art. I have been giving impromptu lecture-discussions every morning about whatever he has pulled out of a stack of art history books. It's completely exciting to exercise an old body of knowledge, to suddenly become relevant. It's also surprisingly exhausting.

Someone I know at a distance has spiraled all the way down to homelessness. That this person is my age, and has children too, makes it completely terrifying. It seems like something medication would help a lot, and would also be something that this person has self-mythologized beyond grasping.

I'd like to be more lyrical about everything. I'd like to stitch pieces together to make something beautiful. I think I'll start by making felt out of dryer lint, or making a skirt out of plastic bananas. That would be a start.