Less Blind.

I don't want to say anything. I don't want to say it hasn't rained in twenty-however-many days, don't want to say I got the door hung on the shed and got the windows flashed, don't want to mention the new roof, the new caulk on the new flashing on the new roof. I don't want to say how gray it's looked all day, how heavy the air is, how something—something—is different in the atmosphere out there. I don't want to say how we heard those storms slide past north to south last night, how we hurt when they went by. I don't want to say anything except that I have a couple of beers cool in the fridge, an idea about taking the Toad out to the front porch, and this: on that pretty little map up there, we live smack between all that green and the big red L.

My god I hope we're waterproof out back. My god I hope we need to be.