Guitars a little out of tune. A constant buzzing. A few bizarre habits, bearing no mention here. But on the bus, daily. Sleeping in bunks, laid out longways like tomorrow’s clothes. Headphones, cord curled over itself into tangle. Blindfolds. Reliably. Squeamish in the deviation from it. All these long rides. Calm. Calming. Rotations over eight axles. Comfortably. Comfortably. And they said it was a Kurt and Courtney, but no: friends, it was warmer. Guitars a little out of tune. A constant buzzing. A few bizarre habits. But on the bus, daily, comfortably.

Buzzard. It’s the only word I have to describe the last two or three days. I have missed every opportunity to see friends I don’t get to see enough, have probably done this to myself. Well. That’s foolish. I should spend tonight working. Instead, I think I’ll spend it reading something biting. You know, to reverse the spell.