It is not that the day be worse than any other. Heads on necks have their own beats and rhythms which have nothing to do with the day, the year or the hour. Will I ever forgive being who I am? It is my one and lonely success. The truth is, we don't like the Truth. Truth has very few friends, and those are suicides. Bubbling notes and sigh-to-silence the wave reached up on the shore. The pipe-note yearns as it runs along the vanishing foam edge. Then back it runs, having forgotten its watch. Or wallet. One or-error-the-other.Strange how the bubbling juxtaposes the darkening gray infinity rushing out past the strand bird, past where it runs to toss, now tossing my attention against the absent. Not even abandon is out there.
Yes, I will try to be. Because I believe that not being is arrogant.