 Wednesday, February 19, 2003
So I blast through the day like a tailgunner pilot, hitting the marks, I’m on cue, I’m cutting down enemies – the details, the errands, places to go and things to do just so I can get to….to what? To a warm bath and a book? To a forest primeval? The hurry and hustle prolongs the length of the langorous time, so that that time be extended so long that I am suddenly behind again and a viscious cycle ensues – more bobbing and weaving requiring longer pslamic time, requiring….
At least now I have a “place” place. In the hallowed library, the luminous child in the Bouguerau painting gleams with soothing regression. The wall of books stand meditatively still, they speak volumes (puns don’t kill, people who use puns do). (0) comments • • • • • |
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Desperately Seeking Retirement      |
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