There was a note this morning. Left from myself. Orange paper, stuck to the desk. It read, “it is good for a poet to wait in the rain.”
The beer is fine on the carpet. We’ll sleep tomorrow. So today, was not what I thought it would be. As though it ever could be to be begin with. Yet still, what I had vaguely schemed the first time I attempted waking this morning was far off from what was. But looking back, I…
This one started Sunday morning. Early. So early, we believed it still be Saturday night. Such wonderful fools.
It has been a while. Almost feels like a first time. Again. Hiatus explanations are weak, however. At least compared to the effect of what is supposed to follow. Not to put myself in a position to sell said self as successful. Nor to contradict towards failure.