Wine keeps following me, and all my thoughts.  Sipping a red, on the floor of the office, and I wish I had weather.  Outside, too perfect.  Gorgeous California night with the syrupy air that’s warm with that perfectly paced breeze.  Why can’t I have a thunderstorm.  Why not a hurricane, or just simple summer rain?  Wish wish wish… but why not work with what I have, use it in some informed way, my mind telling me to stop with the intersections of turbulence and invite some rile.  Glass done, so now what.  Want to read.  Want to take a break from the page.. read what.  Be a student how.  Now.  My books are all over the place— well, not MY books, but the books of my teachers.. Kerouac, Plath, HST.  Am I imprisoned by my meditation?  Doesn’t that defeat any point or purpose, or postulation drafted?  Now I’m really overthinking… ‘nother glass.

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