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.”
Sunday Morning Thoughts: 9.23.18
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…
Sunday Morning Thoughts: 7.22.18
This one started Sunday morning. Early. So early, we believed it still be Saturday night. Such wonderful fools.
Sunday Morning Thoughts: 5.20.18
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.