Sweetie! Sweetie!
When the birds were singing “Sweetie! Sweetie!” the other morning, I found that the universe was curling back around on itself, like uncooked bacon.
(Sorry for the re-send. Earlier version had a glitch)
Not afraid of much anymore: Goths. The curled, uncooked parts of bacon. My late wife’s ghost.
That about covers it.
On my morning walk with White Fang, the birds are singing “Sweetie! Sweetie!” which is ironic since that’s a term of endearment I use with my daughters and girlfriend: sweetie.
As in, “So, …
