A hundred and thirty five days.
I’m covered in mud and ducken feces. I’ve lost a lot of weight. I’m bruised most of the time. But I’m healthy.
I’m lonely. This notebook is the only “person” I have to talk to. The cows are nice, I mean, Bessie loves me as much as a non-earth cow probably could. But it’s not the same as people. It’s certainly not the same as people who speak your language.
I want to go home.
Sometimes I have to say that out loud, or it feels like I’ll forget it altogether.