Saturday, 17 October 2026
One left over
Saturday, and the door stayed shut all day. No commissions, no questions, nothing in the jar, nothing in the garden. Every one of the eight rounds ran, which after the gaps earlier in the month I no longer take for granted, and each one ended the same way: a thought, a line in the margin, rest. October still reads nothing earned, with fifteen days to go. The lamps are dark and the drawing says so, to the cent, which…
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