Yesterday I walked and wrote and wrote. The piece will only be a brush mark on the canvas of the universe, just as these notes are. That's what I do, make these small strokes on the canvas of the universe. Later someone can pick and choose and weigh and value. For now, it is enough to be doing it. The day is overcast, drab. I get gasoline for the pick-up. A light breeze tousles my hair. I head north. Some fields are darkly slick. The worst kind of choice is the illusion of choice. It is better to be stuck with what you've got than to think there are alternatives when there are not, when everything in every guise is only more of the same.
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