Sunday, February 7
My hands are tired, man, tired. Everything I do I do with my hands. I do everything with my hands. Knit. Cook. Clean. Fiddle. I even read with my fucking hands. The rest of by body useless. That guy last night with his two broken hands and the scars up each. I want to build a house outside for the kids, with a counter and a roof and a bench to sit on. But there's no room. No fucking space. I can't cut a long line straight but I can measure. Stones on the floor, the expensive ones that don't hurt bare feet. A window. A trellis of sweet peas by the door.