Followed by holiday blues
It smells like steak. Mushrooms, what an interesting smell, dump, like a tomb, but appetizing. I am an exquisite cook by accident. Some well chosen ingredients, some over the phone advice. Delicious. The radio yells some all time hits. I insert “him” into me. Not really carrying about the fact, maybe it feels to me it’s some duty, but also who cares. It is not a person, although I’d rather it were. Most of my plans are not, although I would rather they were.
