One anticipates a firm push in the direction of randomness. Eggplant omelets with chili peppers and cheddar - that'll get him talking. I dreamed of an old friend and felt the familiar pang of betrayal.
Yet woke and found a shady place in which to write. This. Butterflies near the now-bland lilac, too far away to identify.
Eighteen wheelers downshift a mile or more away. God has no means with which to judge cowardice. Wasps hovered at the compost, drawn by fruit rinds, the ruins of our pie.
Later, Grateful Dead tunes were heard, not quite drowning out the conversation of roofers pissing on whoever had done the same job three decades earlier. Cukes and wildflowers planted far too late but still. Watch yourself, you might learn something.
Yet it was not clear that the law of large numbers applied. Chickens nattered in the shade, mud splattered on their breast feathers. It was nice last night to see stars, so accustomed we are now to rain.
It's not the lack of shoes so much as the inclination to define oneself through scarcity. Jesus what an idea. Or so one thinks, watching hummingbirds in the lilies.
There's an old chest out on the highway with a sign that says it's free. You aren't your past, however much they sting.
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