An imposition upon writing, this sun. Derivation from tiny, blinkered living room, widowed from the first light, houseplants barely surviving in tropical darks, neutering and acclimatising. I shall leave after writing a letter, these words, perhaps an off-topic rebuttal is needed.
I write to remember.
The day sketched in diary terms, loose meetings and a clutch of times, joyful brood of aquaintancing to be done.
Plentiful correspondence, televisions within televisions, why do I allow this, prevent that, accept this, detest that? If I knew, I would/would not.
The modern correspondent is supposedly guileful and precise, shorn of periphery. A lie. Modern language is as ornate as that koi-and-fountain that you covet, the pearl-in-concrete next door. Glamour in speak is not saying nothing, how can a word become unnecessary, it is at the very least a token of necessity even in its negative state.
But, a hex on this. Sun roams the pavements and friends wait with footballs and instruments and more than this. I feel a certain energy, caused by you-know-who, like the knowledge of an acronym. Yes, I like that.
Knowing you is like knowing an acronym.