Past few days being ones of internal discord and a growing sense, correctly or in–, that my mornings here, writing in the Sanctum, are little more than an act of pretend, a self-sanctioned adult iteration of waking up early to play with my action figures under blankets during my late-single/early double digits before the reality of life in this place – this backwoods hell – snuck in, a reality of life I sought to escape in my teens recycling itself in a groundhogday clusterfuck day in and day out in my forties that dangles the reasons why I left in the first place like a broken cat toy on a frayed string, the only difference – other than my age, my marriage, and aforementioned dogs pictured – between then and now being that, back then, I could see a light at the end of the tunnel: I could see my escape.

But then again, it's my choice whether or not to bat at the frayed cat toy – and I have been, of late, making the wrong choice. And let's be honest: it's not like I'm going anywhere – I like being married, I like the dogs (oh, the complications) – but I do recognize the need to, as my therapist advised in the pre-backhoe years, "shake things up" – precisely how being a mystery since the day he prescribed it.

(Thanks a lot.)

Meanwhile, in "extricate your head from your ass and have some perspective" news: KYIV, author Yevgenia Belorusets's daily chronicle of her life during Putin's atrocity, is being published daily by isolarii and is a must-read.

Random workthought: if ever you happen to find yourself working on two not dissimilar projects at once, combine them: you might find something you didn't know you were looking for. You might also injure your forehead when you smack yourself for failing to see it, it being the answer to the sticky above your monitor, WHAT AM I NOT SEEING?.