Of 'shunning Men and Women' - they talk of Hallowed things, aloud - and embarrass my Dog
I'm pretty sure Emily Dickinson would have disliked me: I don't do it slant enough, and I would certainly have embarrassed her dog. Sorry, Emily.
I spoke when I should have been silent, yesterday. Tried to talk to a client about different ways of approaching chronic pain. It was the wrong time and I used the wrong words, and it was probably counterproductive, not to mention probably losing me a client. I've been reproaching myself steadily ever since. Of course, there were probably twenty times yesterday that I should have spoken and did not, but I don't get my face rubbed in the consequences of that.
Another broken night, awake at 2:30, filling in the time doing laundry (there is always laundry to do, if you're a massage therapist.) Light is beginning to show in the bands of sky between slats of the blinds, though the streetlight is still on. I might try getting a little more sleep. It's still an hour or two before anyone will wander down to open up a restaurant. It will be broad daylight by then, but you odd people will all still be in your beds, dreaming through the daytime. How do you do it?