Damn everything.
I'm listening to Leonard Cohen, I read the New Yorker article about his death this morning.
I drank jasmine tea, understeeped while eating oatmeal and reading "Walk Two Moons".
This thesis won't write itself, but there are other things calling, other things neglected in the neglecting of it.
Leonard's muse. My muse, I don't really have a muse, but I have a twinkle star that won't come to my fingers, eludes my veins.
Deeply feeling, do you suppose? Or just a twisted column, kinked towards the bottom?
Damn everything with a fork and spoon, my life will probably sputter out, ghost promises and cobweb hopes.
The Cripple of Inishmaan, brutal and sweet and cruel, feeds some of this, perhaps. Bitter.
I'm listening to Leonard Cohen, I read the New Yorker article about his death this morning.
I drank jasmine tea, understeeped while eating oatmeal and reading "Walk Two Moons".
This thesis won't write itself, but there are other things calling, other things neglected in the neglecting of it.
Leonard's muse. My muse, I don't really have a muse, but I have a twinkle star that won't come to my fingers, eludes my veins.
Deeply feeling, do you suppose? Or just a twisted column, kinked towards the bottom?
Damn everything with a fork and spoon, my life will probably sputter out, ghost promises and cobweb hopes.
The Cripple of Inishmaan, brutal and sweet and cruel, feeds some of this, perhaps. Bitter.
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