The gentleman that sold me my bedtime six pack remembered me. After years. And after without a thought between the either of us regarding the other. It’s been a while, he said. You moved? I told him I did. Funny thing, the timing of questions.
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.”
I often feel sad after a party, but content after a funeral. Does that say something about me? May be masochism. Maybe something a bit more sublimated. May be a sign of acceptance, which I’ve heard tell is a part of good mental health. Maybe I just like to act the contrary.