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one last gypsy finally founda place to park that's not a mile from the door and trapsed on in, tired and the day just started. it feels like november. but it isn't. it hasn't eben november for so long, with it's carefree smiles and walks along (crunching leaves) and now i'm here, moving between this desk and that and trying to think of things i need to get done, trying to get them done: what happens when it ends and is there more and more and more to all of this? i'm late today, but it's alright since no one is anywhere at all (at least not here and no where else i can count to or find on maps) strange is how normally this weather makes me smile, i feel deep full breaths come into me and alive as everything at once, but today, today the murkiness seems to be inside me, the weather mirror, so to speak, as one might say and so on that way is how it's going and it keeps on, a slow motion train of thought and loss and getting everything i want is sometimes colored like losing. can you vouch for how that goes? today will be slow straight through, hardly a thing or this or that, but home (a few hours from now) and i'll be olive branched by silence. once more. sleep in the silence, radio mystery and i can hear the footsteps coming in on me, looking out for nothing. it's coming and the only way i feel is... erased the story of it all, might just leave it alone and you can forget but i'm just stuck here night after night and wading through waking up to it all once more and again. this day is just a shadow of yesterday, and i'm tired of shadows. when it works out to be more than that or less but looks like more, i'll floar by: today, i'm typing words into ta box on a screen and trying to explain my day week month year and how it's bent the wind around me and hell, some straightjackets are huge. i miss you sometimes.
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