I waited.

These things happened:

a small man sang 'baby hit me one more time' as though it were a sensitive love ballad instead of pop-junkgasm.
a redhead sang an irish war song, and a british man nearby enjoyed the sound, but not the content.

i drank too much tea, three nights running.

it began to be cold enough to warrant the rise of the heater.
my cat slept upon my head.

i sold things, many things, too many things to look at without cringing.
i forgot. i forgot. i forgot.

i forgot this place, this sanctuary of words and thoughts and finely aged wines.
i forgot to write again, to lay out words on screen or settle words on paper (graphite, ink, marker--
a litany of media)
to draw, i also let this go. too busy thinking of far away places to remember what i'm supposed to be doing here, at home, in this place.

to sleep.