I mean, perhaps, on Saturday, if it’s fine.
But it probably won’t be.
Soon, though. Very soon. Promise.
And no phones this time. For once. For me? Thank you.
Everything tastes like metal. Joy, pain, despair, delight – all acrid, chewing tinfoil with iron teeth, a mercurial tongue clucking its disappointment in my choices.
So, yeah, sure, why not? Yes.
But probably no.