This day and I, we’re both heading downhill… Him, under physics; and me, under chardonnay. Together but socially distant, me and my day are finishing our mesh.
In the curious coastline paradox I keep multiplying the thread of my miniature insanities into the seine that traps me in this question “To pray or to love?”
Reciting Ave Maria could possibly help, but my knees… my knees that are supposed to support me in a prayer, they have rather different memories.
Anyway, it’s a sin, absurd, asymmetry in a Rorschach’s inkblot to appeal to the holy wife now, isn’t it.
Is that why I appeal to you still?
This, too, shall pass, like a flock of birds, like a dying day, like melting snow.