In the morning, the fog sits so close to the window that I wonder if I've died. It wouldn't be so surprising, what with all the chaos I've waded through these last few days. But I haven't died, and instead I shave my head back down, zip my jacket up, and wade this time out into the world. The internal is still combusting: I burnt myself down to the ground again last night, a long long dig into what it means to be honest with love. There are shockwaves yet shivering through me and the shudder of the metro station is merely an echo. A sapling elm in an awkward backbend along the sidewalk, a flock of pelicans hanging weightily over the bay, the memory of a sunlit, sweetbreezed Washington road.

I started work today; I'll be moving in at Zen Center for the practice period on Friday. Then an all-day sit on Saturday: thank everything for that.