It's easy in sleep where dreams are.
These last waking minutes before the end of work I think about the Monkey and listen to "Come What May." Sniffles.
I talked to Randy on the phone yesterday and broke down. Nothing feels like it should; like your taste buds when you're sick. I wish for a day of rain that I might be able to go play in it and be a child for a bit.
(And let the rain hide the tears)
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The daily jazz of my mind, as pure & honest as possible; but know that words are themselves filters of the original thought/idea.
