4-7-93 I should write.

I should've called.  I should call.  I might call, but who can speak?  Who can utter.  Who has the ghost?  The power?  There's hope deep in the ocean trench, where the glowing predators play amongst the ancient, chrome bones of those creatures we all knew to be truly bad, and spawned of dark domain. Hunted, as they were, we ran as far and as fast as out friends could take us. So what if the ride was short or long?

     In another room, a game goes on,
     between living, and against non-,
     So we listen intently, our glass to the wall,
     hearing small cries as the creature does fall,
     and hopelessly returns,
     only to be played off with melodic call.
     And when it's all over, when it's all been joined,
     after hopes are fed, or dreams purloined,
     There will stay one soul,
     to carry the bowl,
     And give it another try.

So, lately things are confusing.  Doubts are my worst doppelgangers.  They come in all shapes and sizes, disguised as some important folk, sometimes as a type of hope.  But in the end, the rub's the rub.  Turn the dial, poke the plastic buttons, speak vibratory-english into a magnet, and see what grows therefrom.  Phuture!