Frustration, loss, hope, and confusion observed while “empty” hours pass.
Page 214 of 215
Chomping at the bit, stamping hooves, whinnying, and shaking the bridle.
Creaking and moaning, advancing a finger’s breadth: idly maddening.
“An apple a day” is a cure for what ails you? I prefer sick days.
Trapped in my own head, taunted by wraiths and wights, saved by small kindnesses.
Rushing around at the last minute doing work and planning mischief.
I sight my targets, reach forward, then draw back while steadying my breath.