In between long afternoons planning my days - read, highlight, keep notes, don't forget, scan, photocopy, don't forget - and whiling away so much time doing none of that (have you emailed your resume to that foundation, this organization; yes, that one but not with that cover letter, no?), I really want to sprawl across my (mine for less than a month only) red carpeted floor (clean between thursdays and tuesdays; on other days, on a chaador stolen from A, when he was here) and really finish the book that I started on the way to Visegrád.
But my mind is playing games with me, and I cannot deny that I am in thrall to my diabolical subconscious. The last time things were like this was circa 2007 and I cannot, for the life of me, remember how I dealt with everything (I grow old, I grow old).
Maybe we'll laugh about it all in another ten years, or five (if things are better than we are expecting). Maybe not.