Friday, September 03, 2010


Last entry, December 21, 2009.

Why does a person write and then not write and then write again?

I'll start somewhere, pick word petals, throw colors to the wind.

Fall in love again with the click of the keys and the beauty that is around me.

I'll begin with a storm. The one that I can feel outside my window.

"No breeze. No currency of leaves," it presses into my spine wide awake with unrest.

The people on the news are unconvincingly frantic, as is their hair. They are too well kept for this coming storm, hairspray and hair dye whispering sweet nothings to Earl.

Earl pays them no attention.

Storm is one of those words, the kind that can get mixed up for another word.

Storm as a noun. Storm as a verb. Storm as finite.

For now. In, get it out, let go.

Mark time between storms until breathing eases, until words swallow little words and little words swallow little letters.

An i. An eye. Your eye. Always.

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