I went out to dinner last night. It was fine, but I got nothing out of it. I'd have just as soon stayed home. I didn't even have to pay. Still, the whole thing left me feeling hollow.
Just the way I feel this morning. Empty and soulless.
I looked through the photos I have taken in the last months to pick one to post, but they all left me blah. Worse.
I'd better find something soon to fill the void, to replace this fear and dread.
I'd sat in the afternoon with my mother and two of her neighbors through one hour of entertainment at the luxury rehab, a singer with a karaoke style machine and a microphone. Funny, I'd seen him last time my mother was there. He wore a tropically patterned shirt, a small brown Panama hat, brown pants with a belt and big buckle, and, the kicker--gold shoes! He had a nice voice and danced around as if he were playing in a nightclub, but what he was looking at. . . oy!
And perhaps that stayed with me through the night.
I don't know. But once again, I could go to sleep forever.
I ordered a new Buck Mason t-shirt yesterday. Maybe that will make me happy. I haven't created a tangible piece of "art" for a long while now. Maybe that would help. Or maybe just taking care of all the house projects hanging over my head would do it.
But my mother will be out of rehab soon, and I'll be in that routine once again.
The world becomes a Beckett play.
Will Trump attack Iran to distract people from the Epstein files? We'll know something by this weekend, they say. There is no telling what the Syphilitic King will do. Will he wait until the Olympics are over?
We'll all just have to wait and see.
I can find no way to end this post, nothing with which to finish it off. I had a feeling when I got out of bed it would go like this. So, rather than ponder any longer, I'll just say. . .
Sayanora.
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