I am Jane Goodall's Tanzanian monkeys typing about bananas.
My fingers are Santa's little helpers.
My hope is a sporadic rainfall - yet a torrential downpour in all creative environments.
I am Theseus, unspooling golden yarn.
Sisyphus, sweating uphill.
in rooming houses.
A river always flowing.
I am the nightmare of stagnancy and a God of Imagination.
Something on my left hand.
A spot, a glimmering thing that can be spit, Spit or maybe...SPIT.
A male voice just yelled at somebody from down the street.
My right hand hurts.
Reference "Stupid journal #18, circa 1995.
I just spent the last 10 seconds trying to shake 18 years out of my 2 broken knuckles.