Poetry, about me, crawling over my shell-shocked carriage of a corpse. Wondering what will send me to heights, to the shelves. Is it the union with wine, or just these spontaneous purges of personality? Now, I feel as bold as this tannin bomb of a Cabernet, marveling at my words like children at a tannenbaum. This log is like an unconventional Cuvee. Hear the wind outside. Nothing obnoxious, just noticeable. Songs in each push. Leaves descend to their end.
Char 4: Accountant’s assistant, 23, ferociously fearful of aging, already. Bitter with work, as his hours were chiseled to nearly nothing. Thinking of going back to school, getting an MBA, CPA, or both, or neither, maybe do something different altogether.