Cloudy this morning and not much deep sleep. Too much caffeine too late in the afternoon. Up past midnight writing.
So I go out into the kitchen of the b & b to story gather. That’s what we do. This morning I’m asked,
“Did you know S___ G____? She’s a major mover in this town.”
”Her husband and his girlfriend were died of carbon monoxide in the girlfriend's apartment in Santa Fe. After the funeral she had her own private ceremony, and flushed his ashes down the toilet.“
And then there are other stories. We move through them in various realms. I’ve already lost my collection from last night, from wandering between midnight and 5AM.
We are stories.