Dear J—

Every so often I get on the train in the mornings (train 102, southern bike car, if you want to stalk me) and sit down after tying my bike up, feeling as though I’m stepping into a confessional booth. It makes no sense, because I’m not Catholic, have never confessed, and there’s no booths unless you count the bathroom on the southern end of the car (the 102 consist is generally six Bombardier Bi-Level coaches, typically arranged with more bike racks at the south end of the car). Nevertheless, as I step in and sit down in my usual spot I’m ready to confess my sins.

I haen’t written in a while; the schedule has been pretty busy and I’ve not had an opportunity to be by myself in a while, thoughts rattling through my head like some sort of … Well, something at any rate. When I went to San Francisco earlier this week it was to run around (not literally) and see various sights I haven’t bothered to go to before, like Coit Tower and Lombard Street, and I was too busy walking to realize how tired I would be at the end of the day: I was exhausted, which translates to not having enough time for the kids, which translates to …

You know. The usual. Which shouldn’t be the usual.



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