February 21, 2018

Billy Graham, a fixture since the beginning of my memory, is dead.

The green spears that herald daffodils break through the earth.

Removing the white pine will cost nearly $4000. I called Nick to rebuild the fence, and have yet to learn what that will cost. I realize I hire workers based on their beauty. I suppose there are worse things.

Daithi offers me a part in HART’s The Field, which I will take if Yale doesn’t invite me to the summer playwrights’ conference. 

Emotional exhaustion after one of those weeks where everything seems to be awry, and not in any predictable way, but a blow from the universe, a descending comet.