'i think it's absurd that you think i am the derelict daughter...'

I woke up the other morning with my father's chicken scrawl in my head and these words in my ears.  It was a strange, jagged dream about a spiral-bound notebook in which we took turns writing to each other, berating each other for not being what we expected, what we had hoped for.

And that's pretty much it.

I woke up jagged and angry and lost, and went to work and lost myself instead in the semi-controlled chaos that is a university on the precipice of a new academic year, one of the places he thought of as home.