That young crooner, now dead, warbles on forever in the dark grooves of the vinyl...
The repetition of those acts is not meant to convey that I endlessly sweep and mop – rather, those acts are just signifiers of the things that are endless...
I, too, feel the words as they whisper across my own tongue or move through the sinew of my own fingers through pencil and onto paper.
And of course any man who says he is, with absolute certainty, not at the end-of-life is dilusional. The future is unclear. Ask again later.
Midnight sits thick outside the glow of the streetlamp above my car. Thick, empty, but somehow still swirling with voices and sound and ideas.
The waves crash on the shore below us. It’s beautiful here. I could sleep here forever...
Leaves 