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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