Dear Diary,
I came home from a long day, wired and wide-eyed all the way. Halfway down the road home, I smelled the varn of burning turf, and rolled all four windows down, hair in the face and driving a good and well 25 over. The sky was an oily blue and the trees were beginning to turn that sickly Florentine green that sickens further into yellow within three days. I messeled about how life will go on regardless if a person chose to cheer up indefinitely or allowed themselves to be embalmed in their deepest sorrows and tortures, and that prolonging despair about that sort of thing won’t turn life off like hitting a power button, but rather embalms one further and is such a fucking drag also. It didn’t make me feel disenfranchised when I thought of this. A minivan aggressively tailgated another minivan in front of me, and I’d occasionally smell death at certain parts of the road, but overall the drive was beautiful and out of a painting and nice and such veshches. I passed a silver moon perfectly hidden behind a large cloud in an otherwise spotless sky, as well as a family of deer grazing in an umber field. They weren’t in their usual grazing spot, and when they raised their heads they looked at me like they didn’t recognize me. When I got out the car, I found a dead finch laying on the asphalt, so tiny it rolled over when I blowed on it. I only blowed on it because it was hard to believe something so perfect looking could die, and hoped blowing on it would wake it up, but it was, in fact, dead. When it soundlessly rolled over, I saw its face, and its eyes looked like the eyes of my dog’s on the last day of her life, which was only 124 days ago. The sight caused me to immediately burst into tears. I don’t feel any particular way today.
