Last words. 4 the night.

What I want to focus on.. her.  MY character.  I know she’s busy, but I am, too.  Writing about her.  If we die, we’ll live through dream, something induced through wish.  Diving back into my compositional coterie, wishing the pages were done.  But they’ll never be.  That’s why she’s drawing around me.  And always.. around me.  For me to write?


These short stories, need be finished.  But I have bloody items on calendar.  Tomorrow’s dentist appointment, for one.  Infuriating, really.  Need another sip of the Cab.  10:46pm.  Not in the mood for news.  OR responsibility.  Morning’s coffee, already sounding famous.

Making my Self stop with its writing.  Stop, would you please.

A yawn.  That must mean something.

Where did the night go?  Day?  The shift?  The whole day’s time?

Should watch this Poe documentary.  Need answers.  Dominate and quiet all questions.


Innocent nebula brook,

waiting for music faint.

Never mind what you took,

there’s another scene for us

to paint.


The barrel looked sad.  He couldn’t explain it.  The wood, the metal rings holding the staves in their collective.  Their colony, he could only admire.  He wanted to know what it was doing to his wine, this barrel.  No tasting allowed, he affirmed.

“We should taste a little, don’t you think?  This is very strange,” Rod said.

“I know.  That’s what I’m going for.  It wants to be left alone.”

“I understand.  But don’t you just want to see how it’s changing, or maturing, or anything?  It’s your wine.”

“I know…  No.”

They both walked away, into another part of his cellar, to some bottles they were there to taste, “evaluate” as they before joked.

At a small rectangular table, they taste.  “Rich.  Heavy.” Rod swirled, tightened skin surrounding retinae plain.

“Too much.  For me.”

“Which part?”

“Uh, all of it, I guess?”

“It’s wine, man.  Be more detailed.”