Ms. Plath said: “But life is long. And it is the long run that balances the short flare of interest and passion.” How can my strides be significant if they are only constructed for an abbreviated stretch? Time, this all has to do with the tics on the clock, the putrid flexes of the mortal stock. But how long is life? Not that much, in my scope. I’ll be 31 soon. Ms. Plath, her vision, like mine, but not. Her and I, a languorous love affair.
My interests, passions, scattered on the carpet. Scribbles and entries, from that old tomb. Moments from years past. One day, the sittings will cease. Not tonight. Ms. Plath won’t let me.