21

21 days to make something a habit.

Game on.

Stretches the hand; rubs the wrist. Nothing there to limber one’s mind.

The going answer to “How are you?” has been, “Creaky.”

Everything. All the joints. Thoughts skip like a scratched record. (Do they know what that sounds like? Have they ever touched one? Played one?)

It’s noise. White noise. Fits with the snow and freakin’ brrrr. They’re related, I’m sure.

Maybe I wear the cats in my bed as insurance. Counteract the brrr with purr. ┬áMaybe they’ll know I need them.

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