6.6

[How did this occur, you may well ask? I don't know. In fact, I do know, but I don't want to acknowledge it. Here goes nothing: we're back to daily blogs.]

Through the door, I can hear my father clattering through the kitchen before he leaves for work. The sun is streaming in the window, and I'm bone-tired, but I know I'll never go back to sleep today. I have a feeling behind my ribcage walls that I can't quite define. Something raw . . . hot? A touch of tearing? I think it's fear. I have art to create, and I don't work well on a schedule.