Sunday Morning Thoughts: 3.17.19

My feet are blistered. As are my hands. A familiar ache, better handled by the younger body inhabited upon the ritualistic initiation. Though, to be fair to my current older self- the kid fell asleep in the bar the first St. Pat’s in a kilt.

open

pt. I mayhaps I don’t belong and, the illusion that ever did fades and aches its way away from here maybe, I cling to that what never been the never was, intoxicating and framing the disappoint delusional woes, the dolled up faces wasted, on the eyes of me pt. II alone, although full room around…