Prosaic

Photo project finished, I have no pictures to show.  Now, too much time in the practical world is leaving me prosaic.  I must attend to those things, though, that I ignored while living in the other thing.  I must put my work house in order for I am in danger if I don't.  It is full of pedestrian warriors, avaricious, competitive.  I can't afford the creative impulse right now.  Poetry and images are dangerous.

You must understand.  You must live there, too.

I am amazed that they did it.  You know.  The ones we see in books, talk about, quote, discuss.  Cervantes, for instance.  A soldier, a one-armed prisoner, writing from some horrible dungeon cell I couldn't bear.  Then escaping.  Voltaire.  Etc.

I must go.  I must shoot sharp and straight.  Outnumbered.  It is the only way, of course, that we would have it.