A new December. It's colder... yellow leaves and traditional trails.
I sip coffee and plan the great escape.
Oblivion into obscurity, out of flesh, into pulp.
What is one to make of spontaneous creation? Automatic writing? Instant access to play form's delight?
“Don’t tell me the moon is shining; show me the glint of light on broken glass.”
― Anton Chekhov
"Belt me fire in a burlap sack," he said...
"Bean me dream into the plot twists gross."
"I have six pence of remembrance and a moniker inside."
It is Sunday... loneliness is welcome...
Heavy eyes from night's late...
The ice cream scoop out of your cortex, served as the fog of memory, dreamt as the will to rise.