On my way to the grocery store to pick up more cooking oil, I find myself sulking a little, thinking things over.
"Sure, you're doing the blog, but when's the last time you worked on the novel? It's been almost a month," I think, stepping through the metal posts that prevent people from stealing carts.
I start noticing details as I go: clear night, cold wind, thin jacket, as if I know that this is the moment I want to remember, for some reason.
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