Deep in this journalistic/Literary cellar/tomb of mine. Who is this author? Not sure I know him. This Mike knows not the Mike on these past pages. Sinking into this chair, sipping the Syrah, wondering how I will perceive this effort in three or four years. The thought alone, therapeutic.
A dance in my glass. Swing, ballet, classic, tango, all flavors. Difficult to journal it, record.
Darker, ghostly. Haunt me, continuously.
Poetic prophesy in my odyssey, glass tilted.
11:28p. Rain, determined to be heard. Paired with a Mourvèdre, arousing. Where is my cherished character? She should be in this scene. With me. This jail, now joyless. Because of her absence. Needing the character, to pair with current constituents. Wishing she sipped alongside, hearing these digital melodies with me. Our lounge. Us only.