I’m looking over at my little garbage can — all the crumpled-up wads of paper around it.
From the looks of it, I can’t seem to write anything worth reading. And it would appear, I can’t make a basket either.
The last five and a half months have been Monday through Sunday — sixty-eight-plus hours a week — and it’s finally catching up to me.
The gear is bought. The plane ticket is paid for.
But until I’m standing at the monument and moving north, …
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