Five. Past. Seven.

Five nights a week for two years. Every evening at five past seven. Of course it also happened the other two nights of the week, except that I wasn’t there. Those were her nights. Five past seven was when Marcello the Romanian went home to walk his dog. A sea...

Closing Doors.

I wrote a post about closing doors. And then lost it. The post, yes? Which is kind of interesting, given that a lot of what I had to say about closing doors had to do with order. Anyway. I am in the process of ordering things. Not around. Just figuring out some new...
The Fluent Self