the adventure in Romania appears nigh on coming to an end and the prospect really depresses this poet; just a walk down the street and I see a hundred things I will sorely miss; it was the first time in my life I ever felt so at home; thought it was going to be home; was never so happy as when I believed it was true and wanted to do what I could to ensure it; guess I screwed up there.
I’ve said that the worst day of my life was when I had to have my dog put to sleep – truly my best friend ever; miss him every day and no human ever made me laugh so much (with the possible exception of my grandpa, except I didn’t have my grandpa hanging around for 16 years).
Gonna go ahead and add a contender to the worst day ever and say the day we actually depart Romania will be a tie with the worst day of my life, which was the day I had to have my dog put to sleep.
So that’s another psychological barrier to trying to finish a novel-length work. Might have to go back to the never-ending pieces.