Lacuna.

My wellspring of whimsy has run dry, and would that I could draw inspiration from some other source perhaps these pages would not have cracked dry from my drought of words. I don't know; perhaps a divining rod would help the water witching.

Much indeed is happening but I have neither time nor inclination to elaborate on my wonder over the way this life ebbs and flows. I turned down a job offer in Seattle and not a month later my BFF accepted one. I found a house and lost a house. My grandmother had a stroke. I started baking my own bread. Trifles, all, but perhaps my tendency to trivialize all that absorbs my attention is to blame for this thing that separates me from you. Maybe it's not you who doesn't care, but me.

Yesterday I heard from a friend I thought I'd long lost, and though I cannot say with any certainty that the relationship can be mended, still it's a sign that all that is lost may one day be found. Of course this unsettles more than comforts me; what bubbles hidden beneath the surface may erupt catastrophically at any time at all. Not everyone is as reliable as Old Faithful. And if there is one thing I've learned in thirty-one years it's that. That maybe some things were meant to evaporate into the ether forever.

God, I am going to miss you, Potsy.