what’s a post office to do

I crawled into bed Sunday night at a quarter past six. Exhausted – physically, mentally, emotionally. Exhausted with my current address, and exhausted with no future address. I nearly fell right asleep.

Beginning Friday morning through Sunday afternoon I had had at least half-hour conversations with my son Cameron, my son Spenser, my friend Gavin, my friend Bob, my friend Jorge, and my friend David. I was exhausted with my own voice.

In my fantasy my fairy godmother says, “We have a shack for you deep in the woods. We’ll send a car.” And I go there and I don’t speak a word for 100 days.

But, there is the no future address thing.