Half Of October

And where it went, I refuse to accept.

Probably because what went with time, I know I cannot retrieve, exactly as time.

Or I cannot hurry whatever I assume, pray will still return.

*

Given our changes are still us, where are those who've changed with
us?, through us?

*

Amazing how time passes swiftly along with waiting. And hurt does not
hurt enough.

Yet almost crazily I obsess with beginnings and endings, like my
sanity relies solely as to where I place my self in the spectrum.

*

What I give may be mine--what of those I'm not willing to let go of?

The giving game is fun only when someone's needing.

*

Half of October is spent in doubting and hanging on to whatever's left
to hold on to: dreams, deceit; what's left of good intentions;
figuring the extent of things I could do and the extent of what I
could forgive, thus accept.

I measure my days with how much I manage to live without: messages
and a plea for a call, the desire to send messages and call.

Most checked out

Lullaby singer

Gestes magnifiques

Dance is now

Notes on ‘Blackbird’

Notes on Rep’s ‘Beauty and the Beast’

An erring lace

Road to Justice

Dwell

Reflections after reading The Beach by Alex Garland

Techno bliss