I'm starting to feel the heart-rising-in-my-throat queasiness again. I feel tired, but it's a satisfied tired. A tired that has some purpose to it.
When I walk along roads now, I count the wattle trees. I hope to grow older. I listen to your quiet breathing and avoid Keats for the sake of minimizing unneeded cliches. It's the small sounds you make in the dark: the yawns and the groans and the side comments on civil wars. They fill the space. Sometimes it makes it easier to sleep. Sometimes it makes me restless.
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