Something about the inky blackness of the highway tonight seemed threatening, overwhelming.... draining. I felt the weariness in my bones. I felt very old..... very tired.... very sad.

Beside me, Fuzzy slept with his half of the chocolate bar uneaten in his hands. It felt like driving him to an execution. We didn't talk, but I could feel his brokenness..... I've felt it all weekend, and I hate it. I wish I could just keep him. He could feel safe here. Why should I have to bring him back there? Why should I have to leave him there? How is that any different than beating him and leaving him on the side of the road?

Life is hard. The hardest is watching it chew up the people you love and spit them back out..... and there's really nothing you can do to prevent it.

I used to write poetry, but I don't anymore. I wish I did. I'd write a poem about an inky black night with a blood red moon overlooking an icy highway where sad people drive places they really don't want to go. But I don't write poetry anymore.

I need to be in bed now.