A Tucson respite

good enough is good enough.

In Patagonia, Pap does not slackpack me, because it turns out I can barely walk. I step, I wince, my knee feels like bone on bone grinding. I am fucked. This is fucked. I can’t imagine feeling any better any time soon.

Back in Tucson, I cry. I cry fat tears that stream down my face. I eat sweet potato tacos and a vegan croissant and a sumo tangerine and …