Juliet is somewhere in this state. The manager of the sober living facility she was staying at, has called to notify me that they expect her return after the weekend. I replied that I do not care to be told about her every move, and I would appreciate not being telephoned in the future. I cannot say that I am surprised by her leave, or by her lack of communication with me. Addiction will always be stronger than a promise. She is sick, and curling into herself. She is a mass of black energy.
Words are coming through, forming my mood. I am moved by them, or I am static. Another day of this. Another day, in which I tell myself that it is not important how a disappearing act is done, only that it can be done. But I cannot leave the children behind. I cannot move forward, without bringing them with me.
The blood in my veins howls and growls. I tire of this slow song, of this restrained swaying. All that is meant to be a refuge can double as a prison. I corrupt everything. Any affair I have with happiness will quickly disintegrate when faced with the cold logic of implausibility.