I try to think of something to write. I grind coffee beans. I cut my hair. I water my plants. I move my body. I think about dogs. I do my work, the work that pays bills but isn’t really important. I think about how I don’t really want to work more than I already do. 

I write a few pithy lines. I check zillow for the fourth time in as many hours. I eat chocolate covered pretzels. I go to the library. I facetime my sister. I listen to the elephant thunder around upstairs. I make tea. I read texts and forget to respond to them. I dream of places I can’t go and people I can’t see. 

I try to write some more. I clean the kitchen and sweep the floor. I go for a walk. I watch the clouds. I read a few pages of a book that doesn’t hold my attention. I think about washing my hair. Surely there must be some sense to be made out of all this.