This Morning.
This morning is coffee and Patti Smith and Lou Reed. This morning has been getting out of bed too late because I was reading Catherynne Valente’s The Bread We Eat in Dreams and falling in love with story after story, falling in love with each shiny little jewel of language that’s deployed. This morning is porridge and a warm shower and a mild irritation about the fact that I have to shave. This morning is listening to Piss Factory, over and over. This morning is thinking, well, two days to go, and realising that I still haven’t quite locked down the details for next week. This morning is an alert from the transit app letting me know all trains have been delayed. This morning is missing Melbourne, just a little. This morning is looking forward to lunch. This morning is getting jealous at the friends who have wandered off to Adelaide this weekend, in order to attend the Romance Writers of Australia conference. This morning is
