Tuesday, February 10, 2004

Back at it on another Wednesday. It's like a magnet. I suppose it's really just the best day for my cyber-dalliances. Angela works early tomorrow, whereas I don't have to go to work until the late afternoon, thus another early-morning jaw from Japan.

I guess I don't pay much attention to time and its passing or I wouldn't become so preoccupied with the obvious patterns on which it relies. I know that I'm getting older, I go to a job five times every seven days, other people have birthdays that come and go, the clock continues its tireless orbit, the sun gets up and falls down again, but it's difficult to distinguish one day from the next. Sure the season's change, sometimes it's colder and sometimes there's lots of rain or it's very hot and you sweat too much, but then simply the quiet evermore rain of events or none at all quoth the raven. I'm talking myself into a large black bird who was born in a poem. Here I am at your window. Can you hear my pecking at your glass?

When you wake from your warm passages through the dreamy disarray of sandman and ramshackle conundrum to read this, will you know there was a bird peering in at you while you turned over? The dark bird of a poet's nightmare alight on a pale Winter beam from the moon. Will it return again next week in the wee hours and speak nevermore the strange language of persistence? We are waiting.

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