Day 321: Welcome to The Shit Show


Where's that smile, son? Photo: Isaac Stone Simonelli

Daily Updates are not edited and function more as daily journal entries – so if the plot seems to be all over the place or missing entirely and the tenses changes faster than a kaleidoscope, well, that's just the way it is.

I LOVE collecting shit. Crouching down among the scrub brush and bare, white coral rag in the warmth of the late afternoon sun, I smile at the thought. Collecting cow dung and donkey droppings in the bush for fertilizer at The House of Giggles is paradise. It's a treasure hunt. A shitty treasure hunt, but a treasure hunt nonetheless.

Later tonight, I'll roll for my weekly focus, sometime after dinner, in the dark. Unsure how to work shit loving into the roll, the options would be: magic, creative writing, drawing, physical fitness, meditation, and Swahili.

All have their merits, though would I struggle to come up with all six options. It comes down to ensuring that the possibilities are real. Hopefully, as I settle into home here at the permaculture, I'll be able to come up with slightly more creative options.

It's the donkey dumps that I love most. The oblong turds are the same shape and size as a small paw-paw, also known as an Indiana Banana, which I harvested in the woods behind my house as a child. I pluck a number of dry chunk from the rocky ground and chuck them into the yellow wheelbarrow. The donkey turds retain a fertile dark color even after days and days of being baked in the sun. However, they're light as feathers – no weight to their fibrous nature. In fact, it feels like I'm collecting over-sized packing peanuts rather than poop.

I smile as I spot a cow paddy that's gone so white it could be mistaken for a piece of sun-bleached coral. It goes into the barrel. The sloppy cow pads are brittle enough to be thrown straight into a fire. However, they are few and far between. Most of the cow dung looks like acorns, piles of nuts that need to be sifted out of the rocky landscape. They too go into the wheel barrel.

Crouching down among the rocks and tossing shit into the barrel with my bare hands, I spot a collection of sea shells. They lay in a small pile as if part of the archaeological record. Among them is a nice conch shell with a small hole on its rounded surface, which makes it perfect for the mobile that Flora is making. There are a few more shells the size of a young woman's hands. These top snail shells have a beautiful shape to them. So, they also go onto the pile of dung.

I'm alone today. I refused to open my eyes or even budge from my mattress this morning. Instead, I listened to the rest of the group preparing for their boat trip to head out and see the dolphins swim in some of the most beautiful water in the world.

It's not an expensive trip, only 15 dollars, but I don't have that kind of money. Not right now. Maybe in a few weeks, once I've been able to prove that it's possible to tighten my budget up and I'm no longer thinking about rationing my water to make it through this stretch of the trip. Maybe then, I'll be able to splurge on something like this, but right now it's time to shift into a much more frugal way of living.

It's why I didn't eat last night.

Once I hear everyone leave, I get out of bed. There are veggies in the kitchen area. I roll an avocado around in my hand and wonder if I'm allowed to eat it. It's a communal living place and I was the one who actually purchased this particular avocado. Then again, maybe it's inappropriate to be eating this food when no one else is around.

I leave it.

There's an email from my Dad.

“Wow! Who's Davina Seal!? Congratulations,” it reads. It's a forward statement from his PayPal, which is attached to Dice Travels so people can make donations.

Ms. Meat, more well known as the recently divorced Davina Luther, cast me a safety net by doubling my current finances.

I'm hit with guilt. Four days ago, I was sharing a cocktail in the evening and ignoring my financial problems, and now here she is swinging in to make things okay. Of course, Lila was treating me too much of the experience, making it unbelievably cheap to have the Paje holiday together. Further more, even the nice meals together we split to keep costs down. Did I withhold information I should have revealed when I reached out for comfort? I don't think I did. At least I didn't do it on purpose. It is, of course, just a deposit on a great climbing adventure that she and I will go on, but still...

My mind wobbles over the moral question of the moment, as my head turns and my stomach twists with the idea.

“Ms. Meat sent the money to me to catch me and to comfort me. I need to let it do that,” I tell myself.

“As soon as I'm home and making money, I'll start a separate savings account for our climbing trip. Starting to feel much better now that you've given me a safety net my love. Thank you,” I write Ms. Meat.

“Aw sweet heart, ur so welcome. I sent $500, hasn't left my account yet so will check later today if I got it right or not and re do if so. But should be there soon one way or another. Adventure on my friend! Xxxx,” she writes back.

I find myself gushing about the climbing trip we'll have, first setting my sights on my “home crag,” the famous Red River Gorge, before switching to the sandstone peaks of the famed Joshua Tree.

“Oh yeah. High trad, that's my cuppa tea! Hope we can always catch each other at the most needed moment love, it's a small part of why it's so special. Xx.”

“I needed this catch. It's amazing how your words were exactly what I needed. 'It's a tall order'.”

“You wud have been ok, but as Ian said to me, 'I want you to thrive not to survive!' Bless him.”

Ian is her new boyfriend, who is doing his best to find a way to make a home for her and their combined families on that little British island that she now calls home.

Instead of eating the avocado, I grab a wheelbarrow and a shovel and head out to the soil pit to bring back some dirt for Heather's heart shaped garden. Getting dirt is hard work, but there's always a need for dirt, so I know I'm being useful when I walk out to get it.

I say I'm alone, but one of the local men, the only who doesn't appear to be a Rasta, is quietly working somewhere in a back garden.

The sun is intense by 9am. Sweat is dripping off the tip of my nose. Without the other guys around, I move slowly.

“Pole, Pole,” as they say in Swahili. “Slowly, slowly.”

Everyone else is out on a great boating adventure, so I don't feel the need to rush.

The dirt lands in the barrel, sending up a fine cloud of dust to be blown away. A large cloud blooms when I dump the soil I toiled to bring back to the permaculture into the garden. The dirt is that fine, that dry.

We need rain. A good rain.

In the distance, big cumulus nimbus clouds gather. They are forming on the land side of where I stand, yet I doubt they'll share their wealth with The House of Giggles.

By the second trip to the soil site, I've stripped off my t-shirt, letting the sun's hot tongue lick my already burnt skin. After an hour like this, I'll cover myself back up.

Even with yesterday's experience of hauling the dirt, I'm optimistic about how many barrels I'll bring back.

There's an aching sensation in my biceps and lower back, as if they're boxers glancing at their coach to see if he's going to throw in the towel yet.

He's not.

After the second load, I go back for a third load.

Rivulets of sweat drip from my face, my lower legs and forearms are plastered with the fine, dark brown dirt.

That's it I think, resting in the shade of our home before taking the barrel of dirt back to the misshapen heart garden.

My stomach is struggling out here, but not because it's been 24 hours since I've eaten. I woke up in the dark this morning to a wet fart.

In the dark, I tentatively made my way across the sharp rocks to the abandoned foundation of a building across the path from the House of Giggles. I knew I should push deeper into the bush, but the rocks are sharp against my bare feet and the bright moon is not strong enough for me to pick my way past the most jagged of them. I squatted down and let the shit-piss come out, before returning to the shower to wash the curry from my green underwear and hang them up to dry.

During my morning shower, it all came out. What could I do? It's like pissing in a shower, but less sanitary. I make sure it's all washed away before finishing my shower, feeling the salt in the well water making my hair stiff like a well-starched shirt.

My stomach has gotten to the point that I simply ignore the needing to take a dump as I collect the dirt. What's the point? The sensation will return almost immediately and it's not like much is coming out. Instead, I squeeze my cheeks for a moment then forget about it all together. It's a dangerous method, but works for the most part.

With the most intense hours of the day on the rise, I pack a bag and head out for Paradise Lodge, which turns out to actually be called Promised Land Lodge.

There's an agreement between the permaculture and the lodge that allows us to come mooch their WiFi and charge our devices, as long as we buy something.

Past Dolphin Resort Lodge, the road to Promised Land Lodge splits off, a wooden sign arches over the dirt path. At first, the place looks like nothing special. The road continues into a shabby parking area. In the lot, there's a wooden sign pointing down toward the ocean that reads “Restaurant and Bar”.

The lodge turns out to be a well-crafted piece of paradise. A raised cement pool glows with clear water, loungers placed around it sit in the shade. Soft Zanzibar sand is spread everywhere among tall coconut palms that dot the landscape. Hammocks and woven, swinging chairs hang between the trees and from the ceiling around the bar.

The bar is decorated with treasures from the sea. It's a beautiful clutter of curious objects, shells, bottles, corals, and so many things I can't quite name. The lodge's sand runs to the edge of a coral rag cliff, which plummets a few meters before finding itself embraced by the shallow, azure waters that run several hundred meters out before the ocean floor falls away, giving the blue a depth.

Giant conch shells and whale vertebra are tied to the coconut trees and the pillars of the thatch roofed bar. The bleached-white vertebra are from the last whale to have washed up in Zanzibar about 18 years ago.

Glancing at the handwritten menu, I spot a fish salad for 8,000 Shilling. That's four dollars. Of course, I'd probably have spent less money if I went out with everyone last night. However, my financial situation has changed, shouldn't I have a mini-celebration and break my accidental fast. The fish, without a doubt, will be good for me.

Even in this perfection, with my drone charging and a chef making a little fish salad – a luxury I didn't expect to have, had I not woken up to the news from Ms. Meat – there's a part of me that remains deeply unsettled.

“I've lost the ability to make the best of a situation,” I tell myself. “That's it. That's exactly what it is. Imagine being a person always stuck with this mentality, where no matter how quickly or how surely the winds change to fill your sails you're pulling them down so that your boat ends up listlessly floating at sea.”

“At least I've identified the issue,” I think.

I can fix this. I can turn this around. Ms. Meat gave me a safety net. There will be adventures to come.

A Czech woman in a bright pink bathing suit swinging like a child in one of the hanging chairs nearby is chattering away. She's an extreme extrovert, the kind that comes into a party knowing nobody and leaves having made an impression on everyone.

I listen to her talk, though I'd rather be working.

Unable to focus on my work, I curl up in a swing for a short nap.

The WiFi on my phone reaches all the way to the bathroom. PornHub.com shows up on my phone screen and I slip over to the men's bathroom for a quick wank – which is often a good way to start turning things around, though maybe not always in the best place.

The die turns down a soda, so I order a coffee. It feels like I've been lingering a bit too long waiting for everything to charge after having my salad. With a full cup of milk coffee next to me, I ask the owner of the place for the WiFi password for my computer. The guy I was talking to early punched it into my phone for me, but couldn't tell me what it was. Apparently, they recently changed it.

The owner is a tall, fit middle-aged man with thick dreads that have been bleached from years of sun and salt. His eyes are hiding behind large Euro-trash sunglasses. We'd casually talked about drone videos, as I tried to plant the seed about perhaps doing a promo video here. I figured my connection with the permaculture place was a good way to get a foot in the door.

I was wrong.

“You're from the permaculture, right? I can't give you the password,” he says. He's not looking directly at me. He's taken his sunglasses off and his eyes are bouncing around in his head as if he's been rattling around with this conversation in his head for a long time, but is still terribly uncomfortable having it. “They come here four or six at a time and set up base. They set up base and kill the vibe. It's a delicate thing we have built here and it ruins the vibe for the guests. There's a flow from breakfast to the bar to the lounge, but when they set up base it ruins everything. It's hurting our rating.”

His words are stern, yet not an attack on me personally. I find myself agreeing and nodding, as if perhaps I'm not exactly the sort of person he is talking about, me sitting her at the bar drinking a coffee with my laptop, phone, and drone charging. Me having set up base, because I thought it was okay.

“I thought that if I bought food...” I try to say, but he's not interested.

“We've been thinking a lot about what we have to do to solve this problem. So I can't give you the password.”

“That's fine I understand.”

His rant loops back on itself several more times before it runs out of steam.

Nearly all my devices are charged at this point. I wait another fifteen minutes before paying my tab of 15,000 Shilling. It feels like a huge bill, but the reality of the situation is that it's nothing for a place like this. It's a huge bill for a person from the permaculture who justifies three hours of chilling and charging with a bottle of water for 2,000 Shilling. However, for a place that charges 50 to 60 dollars a night for a bed, these bottles of waters and the occasional breakfast doesn't compensate for killing the vibe of guests paying so much money for a paradise experience.

The world takes on a golden glow right about now, a few minutes past 4pm. I assume everyone will be back from the boat trip and preparing for an afternoon shift. I'm wrong, which seems to be happening a lot today.

The House of Giggles is a ghost town with only the westward wind disturbing the hammocks. The one local guy shows up from some garden near the back to inform me that he's off to a neighbor's house.

All alone, I head out to add to my beloved shit collection.I LOVE collecting shit. Crouching down among the scrub brush and bare, white coral rag in the warmth of the late afternoon sun, I smile at the thought. Collecting cow dung and donkey droppings in the bush for fertilizer at The House of Giggles is paradise. It's a treasure hunt. A shitty treasure hunt, but a treasure hunt nonetheless.

Later tonight, I'll roll for my weekly focus, sometime after dinner, in the dark. Unsure how to work shit loving into the roll, the options would be: magic, creative writing, drawing, physical fitness, meditation, and Swahili.

All have their merits, though would I struggle to come up with all six options. It comes down to ensuring that the possibilities are real. Hopefully, as I settle into home here at the permaculture, I'll be able to come up with slightly more creative options.

It's the donkey dumps that I love most. The oblong turds are the same shape and size as a small paw-paw, also known as an Indiana Banana, which I harvested in the woods behind my house as a child. I pluck a number of dry chunk from the rocky ground and chuck them into the yellow wheelbarrow. The donkey turds retain a fertile dark color even after days and days of being baked in the sun. However, they're light as feathers – no weight to their fibrous nature. In fact, it feels like I'm collecting over-sized packing peanuts rather than poop.

I smile as I spot a cow paddy that's gone so white it could be mistaken for a piece of sun-bleached coral. It goes into the barrel. The sloppy cow pads are brittle enough to be thrown straight into a fire. However, they are few and far between. Most of the cow dung looks like acorns, piles of nuts that need to be sifted out of the rocky landscape. They too go into the wheel barrel.

Crouching down among the rocks and tossing shit into the barrel with my bare hands, I spot a collection of sea shells. They lay in a small pile as if part of the archaeological record. Among them is a nice conch shell with a small hole on its rounded surface, which makes it perfect for the mobile that Flora is making. There are a few more shells the size of a young woman's hands. These top snail shells have a beautiful shape to them. So, they also go onto the pile of dung.

I'm alone today. I refused to open my eyes or even budge from my mattress this morning. Instead, I listened to the rest of the group preparing for their boat trip to head out and see the dolphins swim in some of the most beautiful water in the world.

It's not an expensive trip, only 15 dollars, but I don't have that kind of money. Not right now. Maybe in a few weeks, once I've been able to prove that it's possible to tighten my budget up and I'm no longer thinking about rationing my water to make it through this stretch of the trip. Maybe then, I'll be able to splurge on something like this, but right now it's time to shift into a much more frugal way of living.

It's why I didn't eat last night.

Once I hear everyone leave, I get out of bed. There are veggies in the kitchen area. I roll an avocado around in my hand and wonder if I'm allowed to eat it. It's a communal living place and I was the one who actually purchased this particular avocado. Then again, maybe it's inappropriate to be eating this food when no one else is around.

I leave it.

There's an email from my Dad.

“Wow! Who's Davina Seal!? Congratulations,” it reads. It's a forward statement from his PayPal, which is attached to Dice Travels so people can make donations.

Ms. Meat, more well known as the recently divorced Davina Luther, cast me a safety net by doubling my current finances.

I'm hit with guilt. Four days ago, I was sharing a cocktail in the evening and ignoring my financial problems, and now here she is swinging in to make things okay. Of course, Lila was treating me too much of the experience, making it unbelievably cheap to have the Paje holiday together. Further more, even the nice meals together we split to keep costs down. Did I withhold information I should have revealed when I reached out for comfort? I don't think I did. At least I didn't do it on purpose. It is, of course, just a deposit on a great climbing adventure that she and I will go on, but still...

My mind wobbles over the moral question of the moment, as my head turns and my stomach twists with the idea.

“Ms. Meat sent the money to me to catch me and to comfort me. I need to let it do that,” I tell myself.

“As soon as I'm home and making money, I'll start a separate savings account for our climbing trip. Starting to feel much better now that you've given me a safety net my love. Thank you,” I write Ms. Meat.

“Aw sweet heart, ur so welcome. I sent $500, hasn't left my account yet so will check later today if I got it right or not and re do if so. But should be there soon one way or another. Adventure on my friend! Xxxx,” she writes back.

I find myself gushing about the climbing trip we'll have, first setting my sights on my “home crag,” the famous Red River Gorge, before switching to the sandstone peaks of the famed Joshua Tree.

“Oh yeah. High trad, that's my cuppa tea! Hope we can always catch each other at the most needed moment love, it's a small part of why it's so special. Xx.”

“I needed this catch. It's amazing how your words were exactly what I needed. 'It's a tall order'.”

“You wud have been ok, but as Ian said to me, 'I want you to thrive not to survive!' Bless him.”

Ian is her new boyfriend, who is doing his best to find a way to make a home for her and their combined families on that little British island that she now calls home.

Instead of eating the avocado, I grab a wheelbarrow and a shovel and head out to the soil pit to bring back some dirt for Heather's heart shaped garden. Getting dirt is hard work, but there's always a need for dirt, so I know I'm being useful when I walk out to get it.

I say I'm alone, but one of the local men, the only who doesn't appear to be a Rasta, is quietly working somewhere in a back garden.

The sun is intense by 9am. Sweat is dripping off the tip of my nose. Without the other guys around, I move slowly.

“Pole, Pole,” as they say in Swahili. “Slowly, slowly.”

Everyone else is out on a great boating adventure, so I don't feel the need to rush.

The dirt lands in the barrel, sending up a fine cloud of dust to be blown away. A large cloud blooms when I dump the soil I toiled to bring back to the permaculture into the garden. The dirt is that fine, that dry.

We need rain. A good rain.

In the distance, big cumulus nimbus clouds gather. They are forming on the land side of where I stand, yet I doubt they'll share their wealth with The House of Giggles.

By the second trip to the soil site, I've stripped off my t-shirt, letting the sun's hot tongue lick my already burnt skin. After an hour like this, I'll cover myself back up.

Even with yesterday's experience of hauling the dirt, I'm optimistic about how many barrels I'll bring back.

There's an aching sensation in my biceps and lower back, as if they're boxers glancing at their coach to see if he's going to throw in the towel yet.

He's not.

After the second load, I go back for a third load.

Rivulets of sweat drip from my face, my lower legs and forearms are plastered with the fine, dark brown dirt.

That's it I think, resting in the shade of our home before taking the barrel of dirt back to the misshapen heart garden.

My stomach is struggling out here, but not because it's been 24 hours since I've eaten. I woke up in the dark this morning to a wet fart.

In the dark, I tentatively made my way across the sharp rocks to the abandoned foundation of a building across the path from the House of Giggles. I knew I should push deeper into the bush, but the rocks are sharp against my bare feet and the bright moon is not strong enough for me to pick my way past the most jagged of them. I squatted down and let the shit-piss come out, before returning to the shower to wash the curry from my green underwear and hang them up to dry.

During my morning shower, it all came out. What could I do? It's like pissing in a shower, but less sanitary. I make sure it's all washed away before finishing my shower, feeling the salt in the well water making my hair stiff like a well-starched shirt.

My stomach has gotten to the point that I simply ignore the needing to take a dump as I collect the dirt. What's the point? The sensation will return almost immediately and it's not like much is coming out. Instead, I squeeze my cheeks for a moment then forget about it all together. It's a dangerous method, but works for the most part.

With the most intense hours of the day on the rise, I pack a bag and head out for Paradise Lodge, which turns out to actually be called Promised Land Lodge.

There's an agreement between the permaculture and the lodge that allows us to come mooch their WiFi and charge our devices, as long as we buy something.

Past Dolphin Resort Lodge, the road to Promised Land Lodge splits off, a wooden sign arches over the dirt path. At first, the place looks like nothing special. The road continues into a shabby parking area. In the lot, there's a wooden sign pointing down toward the ocean that reads “Restaurant and Bar”.

The lodge turns out to be a well-crafted piece of paradise. A raised cement pool glows with clear water, loungers placed around it sit in the shade. Soft Zanzibar sand is spread everywhere among tall coconut palms that dot the landscape. Hammocks and woven, swinging chairs hang between the trees and from the ceiling around the bar.

The bar is decorated with treasures from the sea. It's a beautiful clutter of curious objects, shells, bottles, corals, and so many things I can't quite name. The lodge's sand runs to the edge of a coral rag cliff, which plummets a few meters before finding itself embraced by the shallow, azure waters that run several hundred meters out before the ocean floor falls away, giving the blue a depth.

Giant conch shells and whale vertebra are tied to the coconut trees and the pillars of the thatch roofed bar. The bleached-white vertebra are from the last whale to have washed up in Zanzibar about 18 years ago.

Glancing at the handwritten menu, I spot a fish salad for 8,000 Shilling. That's four dollars. Of course, I'd probably have spent less money if I went out with everyone last night. However, my financial situation has changed, shouldn't I have a mini-celebration and break my accidental fast. The fish, without a doubt, will be good for me.

Even in this perfection, with my drone charging and a chef making a little fish salad – a luxury I didn't expect to have, had I not woken up to the news from Ms. Meat – there's a part of me that remains deeply unsettled.

“I've lost the ability to make the best of a situation,” I tell myself. “That's it. That's exactly what it is. Imagine being a person always stuck with this mentality, where no matter how quickly or how surely the winds change to fill your sails you're pulling them down so that your boat ends up listlessly floating at sea.”

“At least I've identified the issue,” I think.

I can fix this. I can turn this around. Ms. Meat gave me a safety net. There will be adventures to come.

A Czech woman in a bright pink bathing suit swinging like a child in one of the hanging chairs nearby is chattering away. She's an extreme extrovert, the kind that comes into a party knowing nobody and leaves having made an impression on everyone.

I listen to her talk, though I'd rather be working.

Unable to focus on my work, I curl up in a swing for a short nap.

The WiFi on my phone reaches all the way to the bathroom. PornHub.com shows up on my phone screen and I slip over to the men's bathroom for a quick wank – which is often a good way to start turning things around, though maybe not always in the best place.

The die turns down a soda, so I order a coffee. It feels like I've been lingering a bit too long waiting for everything to charge after having my salad. With a full cup of milk coffee next to me, I ask the owner of the place for the WiFi password for my computer. The guy I was talking to early punched it into my phone for me, but couldn't tell me what it was. Apparently, they recently changed it.

The owner is a tall, fit middle-aged man with thick dreads that have been bleached from years of sun and salt. His eyes are hiding behind large Euro-trash sunglasses. We'd casually talked about drone videos, as I tried to plant the seed about perhaps doing a promo video here. I figured my connection with the permaculture place was a good way to get a foot in the door.

I was wrong.

“You're from the permaculture, right? I can't give you the password,” he says. He's not looking directly at me. He's taken his sunglasses off and his eyes are bouncing around in his head as if he's been rattling around with this conversation in his head for a long time, but is still terribly uncomfortable having it. “They come here four or six at a time and set up base. They set up base and kill the vibe. It's a delicate thing we have built here and it ruins the vibe for the guests. There's a flow from breakfast to the bar to the lounge, but when they set up base it ruins everything. It's hurting our rating.”

His words are stern, yet not an attack on me personally. I find myself agreeing and nodding, as if perhaps I'm not exactly the sort of person he is talking about, me sitting her at the bar drinking a coffee with my laptop, phone, and drone charging. Me having set up base, because I thought it was okay.

“I thought that if I bought food...” I try to say, but he's not interested.

“We've been thinking a lot about what we have to do to solve this problem. So I can't give you the password.”

“That's fine I understand.”

His rant loops back on itself several more times before it runs out of steam.

Nearly all my devices are charged at this point. I wait another fifteen minutes before paying my tab of 15,000 Shilling. It feels like a huge bill, but the reality of the situation is that it's nothing for a place like this. It's a huge bill for a person from the permaculture who justifies three hours of chilling and charging with a bottle of water for 2,000 Shilling. However, for a place that charges 50 to 60 dollars a night for a bed, these bottles of waters and the occasional breakfast doesn't compensate for killing the vibe of guests paying so much money for a paradise experience.

The world takes on a golden glow right about now, a few minutes past 4pm. I assume everyone will be back from the boat trip and preparing for an afternoon shift. I'm wrong, which seems to be happening a lot today.

The House of Giggles is a ghost town with only the westward wind disturbing the hammocks. The one local guy shows up from some garden near the back to inform me that he's off to a neighbor's house.

All alone, I head out to add to my beloved shit collection.

#Dailyupdates #DailyUpdate #featured #Tanzania #Zanzibar

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THE premise is simple: Allow die roles to determine the majority of decisions faced while motorbiking throughout the world with a limited budget for an entire year.      It’s 365 days of tempting fate, enticing serendipity and letting go of free will – if such things exist at all.

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