Late.  Still

with this ’14 Cab, and thinking about tomorrow.  And the tomorrows after more tomorrows.  I’m at somewhat of an impasse I guess, but more or less composed.  This has img_8536-1to be my academic side proliferating obnoxiously as always, like my philosopher friend.
Don’t talk about him much on this blog, but I do in class, and that should change.  What
will change, this writer and his political tether.  What I see, is an invitation for a writer like me.  I have no intention of rioting, or even protesting.  I say, “Let him do what he wants.  Let him be president.” Ugh…  Yeah, hard to swallow.  But these next four years will be a writing assignment for the writer.  This new political journalist Me.  I can’t stop thinking.  About everything.  The mood from yesterday’s turn onto whatever street to the other till when I was parked and had to walk to my room in Maggini Hall, still staked.

New flipping of page sheet, the writer notices the quiet in this room, and that he still has a noticeable momentum note in his functionality.  Forgot to jot the young man who said to me, “It’s okay, buddy, you’re good,” as I passed him and his buddy on the stairwell of Emeritus, each impressionable chap on either side which was awkward for me, why I apologized as I climbed.  Don’t know why the moment has stuck with me but it has.  Such a generous expression, welcoming, and on a day where I was in not standing to be even the most civilly communicative.

It’s late.  And the writer of wine has had wine, so he should probably stop.  The writer’s tired, about to make his coffee for morrow. why can’t there be more hours in the writer’s fucking day?  Now I’m just emotional, the wined wine whining.  Bed, Mikey!  Bed.

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