nonfiction.
Another reminder of why I came here-sunset throwing bars of golden
godlight from behind the mountain primeval, egrets glowing pink above
a waterbuffalo grazing a flooded paddy, the remains of a day scraped
clean by the cool air, followed immediately by the pile of elephant
shit.
One day there will be reserves left over and writing will again become
a quest and pursuit, not a grasping coping mechanism. And boy howdy do
I have some material.
To think the palm reader was so apologetic for saying that my lifeline
was very short but that only meant most of the content would happen
early, not that I'd die young.
Wait, who? Where? What was that about stories?
Sent from Speedy the ipod.
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