The Space Between

I’m the kind of guy whose apartment is in impeccable order: the bed is made, the CDs are alphabetized, and the desk is arranged just so. But take a peak under the couch, and you’ll find a gleeful colony of tantric dust bunnies rolling over on another.

And so it will come to no surprise to you, Dear Reader, that its been well over a month since I last took my contacts out. This, I suspect, is the root cause for the soul-crushing, skull-splitting, bone-shattering headache I am currently suffering under. My constant exposure to electron-spewing computer monitors probably hasn’t helped.

Fret not, I’ve taken the offending lenses out, put on my wire rimmed glasses, and placed a rogue order — my prescription is well overdue — with 1-800-Contacts.

And fret not, in 36 hours USAir flight 2167 will return me to my birth state, Iowa, where I am meeting up with my brother, Christofer, his wife Jennifer, their son Ethan, my father, and various sundry uncles and cousins who are recreationally riding their bikes across the state.

I will, rest assured, be posting to The Daily Journal from hotel rooms at night. But in general, my now-pained gray matter will be forced to entertain little more than the sound of the breeze through the corn, the sight of endless ribbons of country road, and the smell of honeysuckle.

The dust bunnies are not invited.

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