Left work early yesterday, sick. Probably could have muscled my way through it, but by the time I had told everyone and made arrangements, I’d have looked flaky for saying never mind. Caught a cab to the bus stop, then fiddled with my iPhone most of the way east. Slept for two hours solid and dreamt a scene from work, with our steering committee, where I was taking a bold stance with the VPs and pacing back and forth like an attorney.

I almost quit my job in 2001, taken by the romance of moving to Alaska and writing in the early mornings by candlelight. That could have been good or bad of course, but it sure would have been different.

About pinklightsabre

William Pearse publishes memoir, travel journals, poetry and prose, and lives in the Pacific Northwest.
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