Cancer. Sit down, my creature. The moon was up to something last night and I felt it from the folding table at the back of the bar in Asbury Park. You’re carrying the conversation again — the one you haven’t had, the one you’ve already lost three times in the shower. Madonn’. Put it down before you start the day.
Make the soup you’ve been meaning to make. Onions, butter, salt. That’s the candle for tonight. Light a real one too, if you’ve got Saint Anne anywhere near the stove — she knows the long quiet labor of holding a feeling.
Somebody’s gonna disappoint you small. Let it be small. Don’t grow it. Go gently, sweet thing. Monday’s not your enemy. I never lie about Mondays.