A day, like any other, dominated by the hope for snow.
The conversations I would have had, if anyone had called.
Expended the final guilt of sleep and rescinded the morning for a lunchtime awakening and no breakfast. Your words in my head as well as those of an old friend. Old friends are relevant, they are no more. They appeared today though, like the feeling of being watched which the emotional mistake for ghosts. Letters in the post, greetings and that.
All the words wanted to lead to a day of tales, but instead I fell into forms and filling and competant communication, a healthy respect for others, a willingness to follow protocol. Job applications demanding more of me than my family get. In these circumstances, the irony of a desire for a candidate with initiative is not even a joke.
So all my ideas of a plot flighted like an arrow and historied characters heavier than the paper they sit on dissipated into pleasantries and self promotion. I wanted to write of a continent and a collection of memories, a string laid along roads and through streets, but I lost my pen in the brown envelopes. The descriptions they seek ask not for me. I answer, reluctantly.
I have returned to opaque literary exorcism, a diary if you will. This is the way it seems, it seems.
I had more, once.