512 words, and my stomach is a week old croissant, all tough and tied up in a knot, and I feel like I’ve messed up everything with this story, and like nothing is right, and like none of them are the right age, and like I’m trying so hard, and it’s moving so slowly and it’s just moving so. slowly. and what if I don’t finish it? And what if I hit a slump and I just give up and I don’t finish it?
The stomach is a month-old croissant now, a hard, doughy lump plopped in the center of me that I can’t shake loose. I just have so much anxiety tonight and I can’t stop thinking you idiot.
Things will look better in the morning, I hope. The sun always gives things a better perspective. The moon draws out the shadows, lets your worries play against you. I’m hoping things seem better in the morning.