Can't let a year pass by without adding to the pile of schmwords that come out seldom now that I'm without the time to pay attention. The cat jumps up and down, attacking my ankles while I'm in my bathrobe, and I plead with him to wait until I'm better prepared. Please, kitty, wait until I've had some coffee. All I can say is that I'm editing now, moving from creator to whittler, engineering out all the superfluous references to passe lifeperiods. I don't go for walks anymore. I have a destination from the moment I wake up. It is good, and the cat thinks so too, as one of my first destinations is to fill his food bowl, but after that I yearn for the wanderer inside to wake up.

Are you there?

You and your socks and umbrellas and sweaters, you and your haircuts and talk-to-you-laters. Me and my bathrobe and half-written letters, me and my inbox of please-do-this-betters.

It's in there somewhere. A request from you or me to make a connection.

Shit or get off the pot is the saying.
So I don't have to.

Hats are for special occasions.