No one has touched the house in months. By 'touched', I mean improved. And so the conversation turns again to wild thoughts of escape, followed then by soothing sentimentality, turning then to furious rage toward the hick city council, then reverting back to inspired home improvements, and storming over that into utter exhaustion, to dreaming of a perfect future here, or there, or someother place.

I woke up this morning, and a tree had fallen down in the night. I'm pissed. I marched up to it, and looked at it square in the...it was oozing from it chipping trunk. Getting the arborist to settle this death once and for all because I'm tired of this sinking stomach, this concious, this responsibility I'm failing.