It’s now been over a year and a half — which I regard as three six-month sessions — that I’ve been living alone. Logistically speaking, anyway. I haven’t lived alone since I was twenty-two years old. Almost seventeen years. Finding myself in this solitary situation has been exactly that: a process of finding myself. This main course of self-discovery has also come with a complimentary bowl of soup laced with loneliness, a few dashes of anxiety, some spooky deja vu, plenty of boredom, and good old-fashioned depression. All served piping hot to me at my table for one. =continued=

In the backyard just now. You wouldn’t belieeeve the conversation we had.