The highway between Fayetteville and Belfast slid in a black tide beneath a dusty Dodge Dart with chipped paint and bald tires. Hewlett Pierce fought against the feeling that the road disappeared into him rather than behind him, slipping up inside his body like a cold metal rod.

It would be lost in the big freezing hollow between his breath and his soul. His heart was sleeping, preserved in ice. His eyes saw, but were connected to nothing.

- Jack Hunter Daves Jr.

Having been given this lengthy break from everything – from work and any form of a rushed life – it’s difficult to not feel as though I’ve wasted much more time than I should have. Even with the documented events laid out here before you and myself, I have a difficult time not regretting that I haven’t done more with these two months.

It feels as though my time is short and at least one of the prospects currently in the works will actually come to fruition – on any given Monday I’ll no longer be consumed by watching episodes of the West Wing, or taking mid day naps. I’ll be deep in a box space, wearing the office uniform and playing a politik game that I won’t win – but one in which I’ll always be on the winning side.

It’s silly that this anxious breath should creep into my core and fill me. 

I’m sure that I’m just out of practice. My rhythm is off and the background hum of hive activity isn’t present.

There is so much more to accomplish. This past week has been quite interesting but I’ve been locked in my own head for most of it.