My hands are dirty.
I wore my glasses all night, and though they’re put to bed now, I can still feel them on the bridge of my nose.
My nightshirt, slung over the shower curtain pole to dry because I accidentally ran water up the sleeve this morning, was a sight almost sweet enough to make me cry.
I wish tomorrow was a week away.
I wish a week away was starting tomorrow.
And like some deeply craved mail order item, I will have to wait two days, for sleep to be caught up, for life to re-equilibrate, before this goods on this night’s experience are delivered.
So I will rush to rest. So I can receive the news.