|
9:22 p.m. - January 30, 2003 This journal has fallen apart. All I think about is the tired subject of the past and as I clamp down the more it wells up and it is a sulphur creek and not a place to set up camp. It is quiet here, the wind toying with the wind chimes outside my window; the chime is plaintive, lonely, the poetry I can't write.
|