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it is curious that when I said i was writing you said oh what and i said this stream a great stream
of freely flowing drivel and you said why no one will ever read that better to create a story you
can do that but i am a story and dont wish to create another when whoever wrote sat down just to
feed another better to feed myself and the others can grab whatever suits their moods i write for
me not them and if they wish to join me fine and not, well i never asked em anyway...so why bother
writing huh why bother to make sense? dont know perhaps simply to do yes thats it to do for no one
but myself thats it the all that matters not children wives the mothers fathers brothers dogs or
flowers simply me the matter no one else cause thats all there was in the beginning before we started
to cling and create the fabric clung to now so fiercely, yes, this
is must be...certainly not for you a director it appears of traffic. this house is emptying now and
time propels me to a shadow land with nothing known a time of north of isolation, lean, will be no
more the comfort of the past always surrounded by what was dragged by me from place to place the
dishes silver books and wood the past the mother father and that time when a wife was part nope,
nope, that will not be in north just me and long ago when no ruts were cut to trap my wheels...am
fearful of this time cause age and bruises have weakened me not like long ago but still, still am
looking forward cause the past was good consistent not spattered like the now yes, the north is new
that isolation beckons it will be good it must no can not say that bad luck nothing must be but what
will be for sure...and so i write this now for me no one will ever
know or care much less understand the why of this so yes, i dont care to write for others never
cared to walk their talk or read their right...if nothing else i move along singly draped only in
the father who in my dreams stands crying softly in a dying light.
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