In one of my last dreams of the night I had a strong feeling it was 1:07 in the afternoon and I felt the requisite guilt of oversleeping, wasting half the day. When I awoke and asked Sara the time it was seven something. I lay in bed awhile trying to remember.
A jogger ran past on the beach, winding up and delivering in a cricket bowler’s motion every ten paces or so.
Supply chain disruptions have made odd things scarce. At the supermarket there was no beer in cans. No plain Red Stripe, only apple, melon. Someone told us we’re lucky, they couldn’t find chlorine for the pool until a couple days ago. I lie back under the sun drinking Guinness Foreign Extra, twice the usual ABV. I guess the Irish can’t handle it.
I got up out of the hammock to watch the sunset and caught the three seconds when it goes from a sliver to nothing.
I finished my short book about the end of the world.