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P.P.S I don't edit my columns i.e. spellcheck, because oddly enough - I HATE to read my whining self and can only bring myself to look over the solstice site when I am drunk or stoned or clonzipamed or desperate for a connection.
Anyhoo,
I am giving you my soul via postcards, and you ask me to say these things to your face as well? You ask a lot given your face is rarely in front of mine as often as this screen.
I'm standing in your corridor.
I wonder what I'm waiting for.
The leaves are drifting out to see.
I'm waiting for you desperately.
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You. I give you my heart on a postcard.
I wear my words on this black hole.
I am delusional enough to think this will be a relic of my great art.
I wonder if I'm mad.
I wonder if I'm grandiose,
or if I'm a brilliant writer and caring brave fellow struggler on the journey.
egads.
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