2-13-93 And here it is.

Got way fluked last nighgt.  Keeping clear of spirits dear is a less cluttered way of ranging.  Hoping for another score, we sit back admidst the roar, we're getting better.  We're getting close.

Now I'm left only with traces of thought, the last, quitting embers of a tyrannically stoked fire.  Now relax as passioned parlays entreat me to night. Tomorrow there will be things to do about what I didn't today.

    An empty set of borrowed thoughts,
    Kept inside a dull, thin box,
    Unwrapped and worn through thorough use,
    Unsealed by wax this torrid truce.
    Written by hand with harlequin's hope,
    And a slacking jaw of a deaf myope.
    Clean and untouched hands brought it here,
    To lay in my lap a prospect so sere,
    And I dispatched the courier from my lands,
    Whilst my friend relieved him of those hands.

What's to be seen in those fotos?  I mean, what do we look for but things no longer true.  That's not me, nor you, nor him nor her;  it's us back then, people you'd be crazy to meet.  They're all running around so happy together, standing still in those bright moments.  There's no reason we can't acknowledge them;  they're gone.