Another greyness
this morning. Everything we've promised is written on thin paper, fragile and easily torn. All we can do is hunker down and wait like land before the plow. We should not be sullen. This is life, this falling into darkness every year, this loss we feel in autumn. Hope is not a helping hand: it is the pounding of your own fist.
A wet morning. This is what it comes to, finally. A chilly wetness, a grey mist, the zzzht of tires on the road. The rudeness of fall.
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Posted by: poor_mad_peter | October 23, 2007 at 06:11 AM
Thanks, Peter.
Posted by: Tom Montag | October 23, 2007 at 08:08 PM