I don't mean to not write, I just feel like my brain is slowly emptying out of thoughts. I find myself staring into nothing like a robot that just shuts down not being directly interacted with or doing a task. I can't tell if that's because I'm still terribly mentally ill, or because I have like... brain damage from Covid? I do find it a little troubling that literally every morning since January I wake up and cough until I could probably barf.

But the seasons wheel on. The hawks are back in their nest in the big oak in the graveyard. I learned that my "graveyard friend," an old man who visits his wife's grave daily and therefore talks to me every day when I am also in there, is actually named James. The native red honeysuckle I planted survived the winter; the native indigo did not. It's almost time to hang my hummingbird feeders and wait for the yellow jackets to descend in clouds. 

Evening moving over the Valley in blue and another color that's between that of stones and cold milk. As Charles Wright would say, "part of the rain has now fallen, the rest still to fall." Almost 8, and the house is dark and dripping with the sound of the rain outside. I spent half this post complaining about not feeling or thinking about anything, and now my thoughts are wild. But I could use more of that.