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No muse

A sock thief. Our dog is a master sock thief. Retriever. No kidding.

Haha. So funny. But not what I want to talk about. Something deep. Elusive.


Dislike. I dislike the congregation of young men I have to walk past to get inside the young adult church service. Last time I let one of them court me it didn’t go too well.

My journal entry says exactly what I think of them. It isn’t nice.

Hugs are nice. One of my gal friends comes over and gives me a hug, then invites me to come sit with her and her friends. I’m glad to have friends. She’s sympathetic without pitying. And she’s trustworthy. Very rare.

Driving home, there is fog on the road. It’s been a long time. I wonder where I’ll be in half a year’s time, when autumn is here and fog is common. Not terribly far. Maybe I’ll be ready to write more on my novel. The plot is elusive. Sure, it’s fiction; but I want the relationships to be realistic. I don’t know what is realistic.

That is elusive: A portion of my life, loved by a young man. Untrue.