Normally, I would sit in the front bedroom, look out the window at the squirrels and the crows, open my Italian leather-wrapped handmade paper journal, and write.
Instead, I waste energy on myself, listening to Bach on Pandora Internet radio playing through a set of Boston Acoustic speakers in one room, and through a surround sound system in another room at the same time, to boost my mood.
The outdoorsman is absent today.
The well-placed writer absorbs and reflects.
A result/tool of the society/sub/culture within the framework of living fractal patterns.
Trying to tune out echoes to promote something approaching originality.
Tired of living or tired of making a living?
Keeping orchids and birds of paradise alive.
Buried under the piles of virtual dust of previous lives.
Avoiding caricature of self long lost in cardboard cutouts curiously curling in corner curio cabinets.
Do you dare dare your favourite deity to show itself?
Unaware that alliteration is your deity's favourite display of delightful dervish whirling?
A hermit, digging ditches, watching a hawk miss a squirrelly meal by inches.
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