Wednesday, February 22, 2017

Self Talk

Down at the end of the street, the sun sets behind leafless trees in crimson and flame. I wonder how many sunsets a person gets over a lifetime - twenty thousand, if they live a good long time? - and how many I might have left.

"And how's that novel coming, the one you rewrote twice and then abandoned?" I think to myself, stepping off the curb to cross the street toward home. "Kinda lame to write about the days you have left instead of filling them with something interesting."
One year ago today: She Learned it From Me?
Two years ago today: I'm No Cary Grant
Four years ago today: I don't actually wear cologne
Six years ago today: 2/22/11 Barbaric Meo-awp
Nine years ago today: 2-22-08 Wii Would Like to Play (with your balls)

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