P.P.S I don't edit my columns i.e. spellcheck, because oddly enough - I HATE to read my whining self and can only bring myself to look over the solstice site when I am drunk or stoned or clonzipamed or desperate for a connection.
I am giving you my soul via postcards, and you ask me to say these things to your face as well? You ask a lot given your face is rarely in front of mine as often as this screen.
I'm standing in your corridor. I wonder what I'm waiting for. The leaves are drifting out to see. I'm waiting for you desperately.
You. I give you my heart on a postcard.
I wear my words on this black hole.
I am delusional enough to think this will be a relic of my great art. I wonder if I'm mad. I wonder if I'm grandiose, or if I'm a brilliant writer and caring brave fellow struggler on the journey.