Once, somewhere, I thought of what it might be like to feel. Always, everywhere, I swim in the myriad confusion of existence (with others).
It’s late, again. I’m drunk on cheap beer. Smoke rolls and twists and fades.
There isn’t much of concern, though the walls seem more out of reach.
I think of that Japanese girl who lived with us once, and wonder if she ever thinks of me. She was so young, and so small. She gave me a kimono as a gift. It sits in a drawer now.
Currently, I read: living from life, dying from death.
“I will record a story of love
in the heart of time,
and play it back softly
for the one who becomes mine.”
in the heart of time,
and play it back softly
for the one who becomes mine.”
Isn’t it all so very lovely:
recollecting the depths of a winter’s chill,
sketching the promise
of a summer midday?
