Fall Flight of Fancy

A fine time for moving. Is the fall. Chafed skin is rubbing my heart raw. I have lived here too long. I am developing allergies. To memory. To my own memories. I have collected too many and they are seeping out of the gaping cracks in my floorboards, itching me like dust mites, and squealing like baked grapes.

I am bored.

I want money. I need it to run. But not away. But I need to run. So I should find somewhere. But where? Wherever it is, I need to run somewhere with money.

Dammit. This is too much.

I want to experience this thing called leisure. I've heard it's really great. Supposedly you can get off the continent on something called a plane. But that takes money.

I guess I'll pour myself a drink of scotch. It's the poor woman's vacation. The busy person's flight of fancy. And it makes me think I am a writer. It's good to dream.

Reading is no longer a vacation.