Ten.Two Thousand, Seven Hundred & Thirty-Seven
In the dream, we are all squished into seats on a bus, but the bus isn’t moving. It’s like our makeshift office, and it captures exactly what it’s like to sit in the office. And we’re trapped.
I don’t smell any coffee yet.
The “after” is the best part.
Late morning pages and coffee. It still feels cool in the shade, but I can tell the heat is coming.
What is this feeling of dread?
Pulling the pieces together.
“Three words you want to identify your program this season.”
I tell them that I really needed this call; now, I’m feeling inspired.
He looks bigger somehow.
I ask her if my friend sent the flowers. She said no; she bought them for me. I’m doing something right.