It comes just in time.
The quiet street. The telephone that does not ring.
It is time to lay down the shield and sword, time to stop pushing.
The frantic urgency that bangs the kettle every morning is spent—or beginning to gutter like a candle at the end of an all-nighter drinking Rioja and compelling your cohorts to just listen for one second while the party just barrels on and the ashtrays fill.
We are finally passing out.
The next go-round will be a bender as well. We have just over four weeks to get our affairs in order. We need the biggest bucket brigade in the history of the world to bail out this floundering boat.
So for now I stretch my shoulders.
I could spend the next ten days sitting quietly in the grass. I could spend the next ten days on my bike, pockets full of peanut butter sandwiches, and only thoughts about our world and my place in it. I would like to hear some water moving, even if it’s the toilet.
I have a lot of shit to flush.