The pad has swallowed me whole. Much like Moby Dick will soon swallow Ishmael, I fear. But I'm not complaining. It feels good to be back in her warm belly; down in the depths of responsibility. Painting. Taking stock. Taking care of shit. Crossing off all the loose ends I could no longer tolerate before my vacation just seems so much more satisfying right now. And just catching up with the boys and their projects out on the terrace. I don't know. Feels good. Feels right. I'm not sure why my mind is currently pushing aside the prospect of dishing out big bucks to extract some very important ones and zeros from that son'bitch hard drive. Not to mention I haven't exercised since my fall or visited Maria or watched any Spanish news, for that matter. Well, tomorrow's another day. And if it brings more of the same, well that works for me.
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