Still yet to come is the day that I spend here with nothing to do and no one to answer to. And the pictures, those have been avoidably delayed. It doesn’t need to be perfect to be photographed.

It would just be nice if it could be put together, all horizontal surfaces reasonably clear, dishes stowed away in their places, accent pieces accentuating instead of testifying to their very recent use as the blankets and pillows and ottomans they are meant to function as.

But I like it too much to fuss with it. And the light is never quite right. Just like with my baked goods – I don’t need pictures to prove them, and it’s a good thing because the pictures are the only part that don’t turn out well.

On my camera (which has mostly recovered from a faceplant into spilled lemonade) are two photos of the ceiling of Faneuil Hall and half a dozen photos of a duck who must have been overjoyed to have the run of the pond, not to have to share it with swan boats. That’s all I have to show for Boston, much more to tell.

I leave, and get anxious to return. I’m here for a while, but know it won’t last. We’re down to just a month now until the end of year one, and I wish it would hurry up and get here.

There’s more go-go-go after that. I don’t hope to escape that – just to be officially done with one quarter of what I came here to do. In a week or two I’ll ponder what it all means. My birthday stock-taking is going to be quite the appraisal session this year.

Steak knives, a bath pillow, carpeting for the upstairs neighbors…I hope I don’t go to sleep thinking of these things. Mental exhaustion dreams can be way more harrowing than anxiety dreams.