Monday, November 15, 2010

Left Undone


Each day, I think to do things.  Each day, I don't.  I make lists, encyclopedias of them.  I may do one.  And then I get used to the things unattended.  And that they remain.  I live like a shut in lately, a catatonic who can only go where he must, wound up and pointed in a direction.  I manage things, but not many.  I ache and am weepy.  These blue skies wash over me and through me.  I am enervated.  Then the shades turn pale, the shadows grow darker, the music more melancholy than before.  A gut-string guitar.  I am molecules and this is music.

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