Write four lines of prose about something that is: invisible.
For the second consecutive Friday I'm going to bed hoping the weather forecasters have got Saturday totally wrong. That worked pretty well for me last week, so maybe I'll be fortunate again.
Unlike last weekend, it's definitely going to be too cold (and likely too wet) for Max to be there, so he and Kat are staying home. I'll miss them both, but I'll be happier knowing they'll be warm and dry, with plenty of room to crawl around.
That last one is mostly for Max, but I'm sure Kat could squeeze in some yoga too.
I will catch up on all these comments I'm desperately behind on, by the way. Just not tonight.
The weight of it pushes me down, makes getting out of bed a battle legends are birthed from every single morning. It follows me all through my day without fail. Sleep offers no escape, for it slithers under the sheets with me and holds me close until dawn's arrival.
Day by day, slowly but oh so surely, these expectations are killing me.