It Ends At A Disco

Or perhaps I meant speculator. Belief is worth looking at, as are its roots. You walk down a slight hill to the barn and suddenly slip on a patch of ice. He wrote a poem about magi on bare branches and it was picked up by several knitter's groups. All is well once you've got coffee.

Don't stop laughing and if you haven't started, well belly up to the cosmic bar and get yerself a chortlin'. This guy started running, looked behind him to see if he was being followed and got clotheslined by - get this - an actual clothesline. This calls to mind our condition in Heaven. What I was looking for was a rat and what I found were black gloves somewhat hidden in the hay. Old Scratch is never not on call.

Of course, we are always being followed. As a child I had a series of significant interactions with prisms and clear quartz and rain followed by sudden extreme sunlight and so naturally as an adult I covet mirror balls. One makes a list of the poets with whom they've lost touch. I mean pets. Did I mention my many followers?

Oh this road can be a lot of fun once you know it ends at a disco. At every moment, believe in light. She stepped outside and lottery tickets fell from the sky and - here's how you know she really got it - she simply reassigned them to snowflakes. That fall hurt but your smile - followed by mine - was more precious than gold. Just watch and wait and from time to time be happy.