1:00 a.m., eastern standard time. Home after a stop-off at mom's house, for mission debriefing. Among everything else, the cats were anxious to see me.
I sit here, freezing in my Clarion South tshirt, riding the fumes of 6 hours' sleep across 72 hours. A Clarion South yearbook sits on my floor, with some of the nicest things friends have ever told me. Junkmail overflows from my garbage pail, which is indistinguishable from the tornado farm appearance of my bedroom floor. My family is sick with winter-ish sickness.
There's so much to do. Arts Crossing needs maintenance. My international writers' mail house needs building. I need some more immediate way to make money. And, of course, stories need to be written.
16 names. A billion memories. One oath.
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