These restless, listless days continue as they have all winter.
They slip into each other, gurgling along, with an irritating, audacious persistence.
Time keeps going.
And I'm left like the character in the story, not sure which way to turn, my hat in my hands.
And somehow I keep my feet under me and I am still trying, though nothing changes and there's no audience to see my best work. Or even my errant slacking.
And time keeps going.
Conversations are interrupted, work continues, and I do laundry.
Still waiting.
