Perhaps I’ve fallen behind…
Life being a sort of working progress — we again step from our homes and touch feet to rocks, sea air to lungs.
Fine, fine, fine — back and looking for something to say…
These tired keystrokes, blank like snow sifted across highway or television. Not tired, but a type of deeply impersonal resonance. What you are is what you are not. I’d like to assume the former and believe the latter. Each day at year’s end a trial of edges and courted misgivings. We allay naked temperatures with sleep, ponder less action. The waking hours seem deeply personal, as if there were something within them.
Rock the vote.
*EDIT* Or, not.
a blurred harvest moon.