Took the Greyhound back to Pittsburgh today–the city looked beautiful in the weak November sun as we came out of the tunnel. My fever broke last night around 3am, hours before my dad took me to the bus stop, but just in time. At least I’m not throwing up anymore.

The cabdriver was a really nice lady–extra nice once she realized how much I had just tipped her. I tip a bit heavy and I don’t apologize about it–she brought me home. I mean, to where I’m currently living. It does not feel like home. Nothing feels like that word anymore.

Except scratching phrases and sentences on scrap and on the interior walls of brain when no pen calms the clutches, saved Word documents and aging receipts(”no not trash keep that”). So I will keep writing. No matter how confused I get, no matter how miserable I may feel, I will keep scribbling everything that comes to me. I owe one more thing to myself, and that’s a shot at truly, truly,seeing what I can do with what I have to give. After that? Gloves off and I can quit. Til then, tunnel vision on the page, on my hand, on the pen and whatever comes out of it.

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