And such is this day of the dead. This feast of saints. Uneventful. Sirens scream at a comfortable distance, it is fucking cold, but no real snow, here, yet. I am unsatiated, unsatisfied, and in a mood I recognize well. It couldn't be called acceptance, but perhaps forbearance, or at least a decision to forbear. I am tired, about ready to collapse. A few more obligations to fulfill.
11:21 and I face the hard truths square on and accept them to myself. They are like friends: cranky and enigmatic, difficult, but unquestionably they are mine, and I am theirs: my nature, the scorpion said. A fable.
Go to the minimal tasks, quickly accomplished. 11:23.
klik if you demand tedious explanations of every little thing.
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