Monday Evening Post: 12.14.20

It may have been a fortunate thing. To have had at least a bit of a temper, since some of the youngest days I can recall.

Thursday Evening Post: 12.10.20

Been working on my cynicism. Or, rather, against it. An impossible task these days, some may say. And yet, it is the proposal of impossibility that can entice the sort of romantic fervor best suited to oppose the fermenting brood of the cynic. Not the lovey-dovey sort of romance. More to do with the older…

Friday Eveing Post: 11.27.20

I think of purpose. And destiny, if there is such a thing woven within the fabric of our doomed little sentience. I think of whys and if, and in so many ways, that makes me just like most others. Which then demands, in all its barbaric eloquence, the question of why it is I ever…

Friday Evening Post: 10.30.20

Why again? Why now? It couldn’t possibly be that there is any substantial word flow about to occur. The arrival of some unannounced clarity, casting answers down upon us all like some memory sequestered summer rain?