Brief Update.

Late this afternoon, a kid came to see me to tell me he couldn't write any more, that it was too hard, and as much as I sometimes feel that way, too, that's not what this is about — this is about where we had the conversation, which was outside, under the Chinese fir that's off the corner of the building holding my wee strange office, and somehow the sunlight was changed, was dampened, was that long yellow I associate with April and May and even June, and now already this is what I had to say yesterday, which is the grave danger of the weather report, but still, this was the return of the lawn chair office hours, and, as such, the possible return of one part of my sanity, and so, let me just say, Hey, spring.

Write more, I told him. You've only ever written four stories. Ever. You have no idea if you can write any more.

Blisteringly sunny. Almost warm. Sun in the sky all the way home. Time still weird. Write and read. Read and write. Advice I need to take more seriously myself.