limbo is a dance and limbo is a place. a dance in place of hope.
 

i wrote, sometimes i can decide, but i meant can't, though sometimes i guess my unconscious was saying, i can. 

but today i feel grim. today mister was limping and i thought, if he was mine i couldn't even care for him. i wouldn't have the wherewithal. i see it sometimes, his reticence, his lagging behind, and i want to think, and say, he's dawdling, he's lollygagging. i'd rather think he's being stubborn than hurting, but on spider bridge this morning i looked to him and cried.

today i don't even have the wherewithal to make the transition to winter. and it is coming on. soon all my clothing will be inadequate, swimming will be a memory, the little animals will move back inside, the days will dwindle to a kernel of wan light on my solstice and then, if i live, will grow like the most tender and unlikely creatures to see another spring. but that is now seven months away. every time i reach this time again i think this time this winter will be my last. but i can't decide that. and so i feel sad and angry and scared. and i feel like a queer boy for admitting myself. feel like the fight's gone out. i want to run or die. but neither are viable and so i will ride and walk and freeze and thaw, if that is acceptable to mercy. 

this really should be private. this really should be an old fashioned diary, but i wouldn't do it. i dread the diaries i once wrote, and i may dread this too, but it will be somehow etherized, and obscurely particulate in the shared virtual air.