The demons of procrastination ride salivating wolfhounds through the dusk, silhouette forest of my mind. The grim masters are silent, but the barks from the hounds are deafening. Its blue and black, like jagged paper - dimensionless in a soft moon glow.
The braggot is mead. That's all I know, sitting typing, hoping for some deep reality - some revelation, or just a simple change of tempo, perhaps a key shift. My music beckons seductively, offering the variations that I pine after. It's a summer day in an erotic bookstore, shaking my mind to a snowy march. No run, not today. The falling frost denies potential. The rebirth will wait. The season has not come for change. Hope is not beckoning with the coming east wind.
It's just another frosty pond day.
posted by Ben at
9:38 PM
