Joyfully mephitic. Playful, still rattling. Rain, gone. On my own. Odd, but homeostatic, pragmatic. Find treasures in the box of old writings, like an attic. This Spanish belle I sip, seduces, propulsion induces. Awake my inner-Poe, and Emerson. Confused, but not contused. When I’m gone, I want people to smile, even chuckle. But I’ll never leave. Installations won’t relent in reprieve.
Poe said, “I became insane, with long intervals of horrible sanity.” Love that quote. But who’s truly imbalanced? The Tempranillo tells me that there is no such thing as insanity, only beauty, the celestial. Another sip, on the radar another blip.
Loving safety provided by the Madigan castle. Miss Ms. Alice. On the East Coast she now sleeps. Me, frantic, typing. No cesura, intermission, adjournment. Thinking poetically, and about wine sinking eclectically. Loving the free night, to freewrite!!! Remembering my Creative Writing classes in college. Missing those days, as crazily I do my wife.
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