celine

I take this 3/4 way earth-turn into myself and wring the beauty from it into my soul. I curl in my cozy short grey sweater and drink coffee and tea and apple cider. The Finch Arboretum is probably getting ready for its fall festival.

My blue-veined hands and the surface folds of my mind contradict each other with my writing.

A million words, I've probably written, all in preparation for the novel I will someday write. I've found my brother-in-words: Brock Cole, father of Celine, my favourite book in the world. I love every sentence, I love every new paragraph. It makes me run and jump. It makes me want to write about how the kittie brings gutty mouse-presents to the door when I'm wearing white jeans and white shoes.

Oh, and I must save my little cousin from the female zombie. I thought I had her locked up in the closet nice and fine, but it seems she has gotten out.