running along the peripheries of my heat-addled brain, are not giving me nice thoughts. I am thinking that is the result of going for months without writing at all.
I have to open up the wounds again, I think they are closing up. Internal hemorrhage is a bad way to go. I have to let the blood flow again. Watch it crimson the place up again, then I can play the guitar again. and yes, Write.
Even with the lack of sleep and all, because a decade ago, I got along just fine, and my wounds were raw and bleeding fine then and I slept late and woke up early. and there was this thing called angst; ah, wonderful word that one was.
Things have gotten buried since then and I haven't gotten around to digging up things that I miss more than twice some time or the other these hot days.
Perhaps I should grab my grammar book and hone up the edges a bit, the better to open them wounds again. The funny thing is I'd prefer to watch my daughter hold her toes up her nose than do those things.
I wonder if I can do those things at the same time. Find some balance to it.
guess not.
I can only do one thing in the absence of the other. Oh, yes, this is my life.
