I am entrenching myself in a cocoon. No drinks out, no dinners, no phone calls please, no trips anywhere at all, no freelance projects (difficult when this broke), no expectations, no more things I have to do and can’t remember why I had to do them. No reasons, really, just feel like isolating, just feel very very tired. (I will be going to the doctor Tuesday morning.) Just feel like not being here, and I have to be somewhere five days a week—job—and after that I want to stuff cotton in my ears and pull my favorite cobalt blue sheet up over my head and wait there, wondering, till something good makes me want to peek out. I wore a nightgown under my clothes to work on Thursday; I am not 100%.

Writing a new book and each day I am winding closer in, but I’m not yet at the point of no return—where you can’t stop writing the book even if you tried. I want that.

In the meantime, isolation. In the meantime, patience, while I stack these words on top of words on top of words.