The pink-coated clouds of yet another dawn

He’s at it again. The changing. Every time I turn around something is different. After 4 years of something, I start to expect it’s going to be the same. The same! Unchanging. Consistent. When a man finds a groove... his groove... the groove... certain expectations abound. They abounded here. And now the very branches of my foundation are shaking. The tree is crumbling.
It started in his room. Or maybe that office. It started somewhere and it grew. It grew like the hair on his head, only faster and darker like the hair on his chin.

Next thing I knew change seemed to be the order of the day. Where were the signs I asked him. Where?

Signs? he mouthed.

“SIGNS!” I screamed. “All the important things are on signs,” I said with a red face.

He nodded knowingly and then said, “Signs are out. The Internet is in.”

Falling to the floor and curling up in a fetal position, I spewed air from inside. Deflated and alone, I whispered, “I don’t think I’m ready.”

He patted my head affectionately, stroked his straggly beard and said, “No one ever is.”