The evenings are hard: two so far. I do a little of this and that, and I do a little work, and a little this and that, and a little more work. My heart’s not in it, but it’s not anywhere else, either. I have reconfigured the mat, so the hip-dip will be at my head and feet. I have surrounded the mat with The Madrigal—one copy in a binder, one copy merely an untidy stack of loose pages, even the sheets destined for the shredder—in the hopes that the words and energy there will enter my dreams. Will re-enter my heart. I slowly prepare for bed. Today I have eaten twelve Jelly Tots.
Telegrams with a limited number of words, sent slower and cheaper than a regular telegram.