I have only vague notions, vague words, imprecise thoughts lingering on the boundaries of grey. It seems the only words to be spoken wish to remain anonymous. Someone who once read my palm told me I have difficulty judging between reality and dream - perhaps all was fine before I knew?
The sun sketched sharp shadows on the grass outside, using the unnamed tree as a crude stencil. There was no breeze, my windchime did not sing. My music has left for the day, I await its return.
The mindless, tedious act of sorting through my belongings fails to inspire. Sometime in the afternoon, I had put some Neil Finn on for unintrusive familiarity, but eight hours later I realised I'd never even heard it play.
Posted by sniffles at July 13, 2002 01:07 AM