At 4:43 this morning, I walked over the dog in the doorway to the blackened bathroom.
The opened window radiated August cool cricket-laden air while I sat and peed and farted. I breathed in deep, through my nose. It felt good enough to remember and write about.
I creaked back past the stinky hound and eased back into bed; warm covers, warm wife, warm life. I made a mental note: 'it's 4:43' it read.
It feels good enough to write about.
