The book is bundled. Done. That’s all there is. Why am I up this late? Not ‘cause the author has some problem, or harmful habits. ‘CAUSE I’M A WRITER, determined to step as such, finish a project. PROJECTS. Critics of my practice, honestly, just funny to me. Like the three pours from hours past, I cap my hat in a lapsed caste. Does it convey sense to your eyes? Not concerned. There’s 3 of me, like the stemless sips b4 thee.
This Room, trapping me in streets of sequential sentences, those lucrative. If nothing, for the session itSelf. Like 2Pac b4 me, I’m questioning a lot. From the government’s handling of matters, to existential continuances, rumbles. Good thing no one’s near this wine writer, at present. Feeling like the agitated alligator. Need a PS sip.