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.
Bukowski,
scribbling away
in rooming houses.
A river always flowing.
I am the nightmare of stagnancy and a God of Imagination.
Tuesday, November 23, 2004
Dylan and Dry Cedar...
Both the soft pop and crackles of the LP on the record player and of the burning logs in the fireplace are worthy of mentions in my cool book tonight.
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