The next day, Ives was in the office by eight forty-five, the last business meeting of the year before the Christmas holidays, with various art directors and executives, scheduled for half past nine...
Ives' life is about to change dramatically. In a matter of ten or so hours, his son will be dead. All the happiness of his earlier existence will evaporate like frost from a car window. Ives will be thrown into a spiral of grief. But, in the morning, he has work. Meetings. Shopping later in the day. Everyday life stuff.
I've been sitting in my office at the university. I've been completely busy with students and colleagues visiting. I've been completely unproductive with the work I needed to get done. I was supposed to grade exams. Nope. I was supposed to comment on student poems. Nope. I was supposed to have my posts done about three hours ago. Nope.
I have work and more work to complete before I go to bed tonight. That's why this post is so short. That's why there's no image to accompany it.
Saint Marty is too bloody busy, as they say in the U. P.
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