Last day at the factory for a week. For some reason, though, rather than ecstasy, I feel anxiety. I do not take enough time off, I know, and perhaps I have become an automaton. That is how I feel. What does a machine do if it is not working?
Much trepidation.
I have work to do here, though. There is weeding and mulching and planting galore. If I really wanted to be productive, I could paint some of the rooms inside the house.
I just feel sick with doom. Paralyzed by it.
I shot this picture from the car as I was driving by. I had an idea for a car series. It seems dumb now.
I must give up ambition in order to rid myself of disappointment.
Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.
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