I don't know if anyone actually reads this, or if they did would I ever know? Regardless I've been lying in bed for the last few nights writing bits and pieces on scraps of paper. In all honesty it started as just breaking in the new Copic but now its gotten to restless emission of words that hardly fit together. I get through phrases or stanzas, even paragraphs, but I can't come full circle unless I keep succinct. This plays to the restlessness all to well. In case, here is a sample for those sympathizers both real and imaginary...
the hardest part is yet to come
looking into your heart
knowing whats done is done
standing on the street corner
thinking solely about the weather
the rain that never falls
on the open umbrella
until the day i forget it at home
and you are the suppressed memory
that floods back to me in the storm.
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