Time passes like moths,
Flickering and butter soft.
Time passes like a shattering pot,
Shards and cards and falling stars.
Little for you today but flickering steps. All my most clever thoughts and most beautiful images seep out on the drive into work, becoming one with the fog over conifers and pine trees and near hills and the Bay. Violet-flickering stories come murmuring barely through my instinct-driven brain as I weave in and out of traffic, dreamy, my mind half on my commute.
And now it's midnight, and my evening has been spent, quite prosaically, curled around a cup of tea and a good book.
For the reader, I offer the following in lieu of much more commentary on a slow day.
- Andrew Bird's Masterwarm, being the lovesong of internal parasites to their hosts.
- James McMurtry's Lobo Town, being the family story from the wrong side of the rural tracks.
- The Oatmeal's latest brilliance, or why original content is better than attention-seeking.
Here's to Friday and endings and beginnings.