One day turns into two. Then three. We’ll see about four or five. Hell, maybe that five will turn into a week and we will fly away from this place. A vacation from the vacation. It doesn’t feel like a vacation. It feels like stress. A vortex has sucked me in so tightly, making flying away impossible. But if I were a bird, soaring high above with long feathered wings, black sharp eyes, different perspectives, I’d be free. A free bird. A pigeon bird. But first, the decision maker. To hear yes or no, I’ll move my fingers just so; lift my arms above and move the ball of my humerus around and …
