Another grey day.
You wake empty, nothing to say. The hollowness reverberates with yesterday's noise. Yesterday I learned nothing. At least it feels that way. And it feels as if today has silence in its pocket like something I've put away and forgotten. A scar is the memory of teeth.
Don't begin to pretend you're the fellow in charge; you're a bead of moisture running down the steamed up window, the lovers in the back seat has done their business, it's time to take her home, and you're still just that bead of moisture sliding down the glass.
The morning air is mild, not so warm as a baby's breath but a pleasant surprise as I step outside.
Fog. Visibility is half a mile. The greyness lies like a sheet on the grasses in the ditch along Highway E. A field of corn along the way doesn't remember September, stalks brown and dried; it doesn't remember the 4th of July.
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