Today started out so well. I woke from a snug and restful sleep; filled my grumbling maw with a bowl of hearty oatmeal; drank the required cup of french press coffee; accomplished today’s slate of writing and editing; and then the thump of melancholy struck me inexplicably in the chest.
It was like chest bumping a soft, wet bag of leafy compost—slick and heavy, the mustiness blooming inside my nose.
I don’t know what it is about days like today. They’re rare and they always slip in through the blind spots.
Maybe I need to eat a piece of toast.