It’s too hot to write. I wish the sun would make up its damn mind.
The fears we drown away. The razor edge of reality we dull, dull, dull with friendly sweet liquor, not here to serve us but to be served. We tumble haphazardly over a day and a night; the drink sleeps in curled around the brain lazy and catlike and choking. We are parched and baked, the salt flats from the seafloor forest of humanity.
the corner of a diary page peeking from a blue cover ajar: hints of a life i cannot know
Watching an artist sketch passers-by in a ratty notebook: like sharing a secret with a stranger
Watching a poor artist, starved for technique (or maybe talent) sketch strangers from a cafe patio, with his empty cup of coffee and boyish striped tee. Is it for personal growth or some perceived sense of artistic mystique that he persists in these grotesques?
you come in from the cold and gradually unwrap and unwind and unbutton and slip off your shoes and coats and scarves and gloves and hats and reveal yourself smaller than you looked in all those layers all that armor against the frosty chill of a clean march morning and you order a hand made bagel it tastes like fresh water and sticky sour dough and the coffee is warm in a white ceramic mug and you notice there is a cloud on the window holding a little fog of vapor from your heat and blood creeps back in hot and stinging to your ears and nose and lips and its only just mid morning and there is so much time left but so little left to go–