The floor below:
I hear Simone through solid oak flooring. Anchorage calls.
I'm in for the nite. The gardens out front: watered, fertilized, plucked, pruned, improved, raked, swept our terrace stones clean with water. Beautiful sedimentary stone, with irregular outlines. As we always fancied ourselves.
(SENDIMENTARY would be lovely name for a card store I'm never going to start.)
This thought: life, after all, is the sum of many favors, probably hundreds of thousands in a full life, a few favors very big too, not just favors to friends but to bigger slices of the world possibly. "You, Marc, did the world a favor by becoming...." Minus regrets. The eraser is forgiveness, starting with yourself, you selfish bastard.
SO ... is that the meaning of life, generally?
Oh, there's got to be drinking. Which invariably leads to regrets, which are good, right? [See above.] Unless someone taps you on the temple with a lead sap, out of sight in an evilly dark Dublin cozy. It's seen nothing but betrayal for the last one hundred years.