Just move, I tell self.

Not a matter of thinking, or overthinking.  One of not doing to the degree I know I need. This fire scene, the smoke in the air and the drive back from Sacramento, yesterday watching the kids play on the swings and slides climb those bars that look like ladders or bars or a blend, and now today, home, work tomorrow.  Life is waiting for nothing, certainly not for you.  No thinking, and when you catch yourself thinking, stop.  Actually, don’t stop, just start moving, start creating and writing till the thoughts are fizzled by action. Quiet on my street, uneasy ghost-town feel or sense.  Feel face, need shave.  Reminds me of 2017’s fires when nothing was of a symmetrical send.  Nothing.  Writing on couch …

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