5.06.2025

Utopian self-bullshitting. My sickness insists I can survive with a wood fireplace, a wife, dogs, a garden, and a landline for emergencies. If a neighbor comes by they'd better at least have some seeds for sale.

Instead of movies I will stream original comedies by shadow in the firelight. The dog will learn to make us popcorn. The dog will be useful or she will be sent to the city to live with the rest of the unskilled animals.

We, the wife and I, we will try each mushroom that pops up after a rain. Just a nibble at a time, taking turns in case the other one gets sick.

That's what the rotary's for.

One night when we're good and messed up, on the giggles, our faces distorted by flame, I will admit that I kept a cheap cell phone this whole time, charged it in the sun, hid it in a watertight box below the rim of the well.

It's the music streaming app, I plead. If I can't block the world out with an endless playlist of wordless songs I go useless. Why do you think it takes me so long to chop wood? And also the podcasts.

I can totally believe you lied about that, she says. Then she orders a Lyft to go be with the dog.

If there's no one here to hear me say I'll write to you what's the point?