I barely slept a wink last night because I was struck with a horrible fear of dying, and once I got it in my head and started obsessing over desperate-final-moments scenarios, I couldn’t get it out. So even when I fell asleep for 10 minutes here, 5 minutes there, I dreamt about plane crashes, hornets, and the violence of suddenness.
Then it was 5:00 AM and it was time to make the coffee again, and I put on my oven mitt to pour the water, and felt a wasp inside and yanked my hand right back out and threw the mitt on the floor and stomped on it, all adrenaline and vengeance, and poured the water with a different oven mitt, and picked up the infested one a minute later to empty the wasp carcass, and there was nothing inside.
No wasp.
Nothing.
It was awful.
Then I found this picture of Lucian Freud painting, alone, at night. And this is one of the better cups of coffee I’ve ever made. Remember me accurately to my kids when I go, okay?
(via nevver)