It is late.
Fingertip teardrops stain the barren pages. Words, words words.
In the morning, the graying fog and windowscreen grids pixellate the world. The trees, the yellow grasses in the field, and the bright flowers all dissolve into whitish mist -- they desaturate in the hanging vapors.
No time for photography today.
Can I breathe into your soul?
Little ridges on a little oakleaf. You will grow; the rifts will become bigger. Distinctive.
Or am I pounding silent keys, clattering restless linkages against broken strings?
Three finals today. One tomorrow.
Silence. A Resftul place among the willow blossoms. Sweetly swaying among condensing tears.
And then?