I have been very, very bad about putting pen to paper recently. I thought that once I injured my ankle I would have more time to focus on the things that have been lingering in my head recently which deserve commission to paper. I thought wrong. Instead my time is spent manoeuvring around on crutches. The palms of my hands are almost calloused, which is both hilarious and ridiculous.

Today I saw a side profile of my uncle and wished I was an artist or photographer. The fuzz of white at his temples stood out in stark contrast to his almost chocolate curls, tinted red. He was once a redhead, sparky, a firebrand of entertainment and today he is more an empty vessel clanking against the metal leg of his hospital bed, rigid and confused. He is the life of the party, dissolved in alcohol - not distilled to an essence, just dissolved into a puddle and unsure of who he is anymore. His distress was palpable. Our jewel bright, faux cheerful attitudes fizzled out in the car once he was safely back in his room.

In 6 working days I will be alone in work. It bothers me.

***BOO***