i stopped making plans when they stopped coming to fruition. i guess that was earlier this year, but who cares. i mean truly, how can plans or time matter in a world that’s burning with such fury i can taste it sometimes?

Every day i do my best, and every day i get better at that. What else, truly, is there? Among and beyond loved ones, i have dug and planted a really beautiful garden. My lack of displays of this on social media make my garden no less fruitful or true to the cause. i am devout and determined. Every day i do my best.

The pounding of What do I want went still in her breast. It didn’t matter what she chose. The world was what it was, a place with its own rules of hunger and satisfaction. Creatures lived and mated and died, they came and went, as surely as summer did. They would go their own ways, of their own accord.

Barbara Kinsgolver, _Prodigal Summer_

A lot of people ask me what my plans are. i have none, anymore. i have dreams and goals certainly, but no will worth asserting on the world. She always does only what she wanna do, anyway.

Who knows? Who knows where i’ll be when winter comes.