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Posted by on Nov 5, 2008


There was no transition to these autumnal shadows, this darkness.
I boarded a plane on the Mediterranean and cast my lot with the
familiarity of youth, endless waning fall days spent staring from the cracked
window of my bedroom on Clearmount.

I remember this listlessness and am perversely comforted by it. Winter stretches
out ahead, dreams dither, action is neither conclusive nor decisive. Scripts stretch over reams and not sheets.

It is time for introspection, for recollection, for retribution. It is a winter of contentedness,
a flicker of self-importance.

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