Wrapped in his own unobscurity, Jason made his way past the pizza parlor and into his nothing-but-crumbling life he'd left behind 30 minutes ago, crying all the way.
When does a sentence become a paragraph?
When does 3/4 of an inch make a difference?
Life after the river. Interesting and happy, those days on the shore. We truly lived there, but days were short though nights will be our eternity. Where the most occurred, where things progressed forth, if retarded, at least beautiful.
And where does that leave us today? Where are we? What must happen to get somewhere. Things can't just fall apart, not so soon after the stage was stricken.
A message reads
among dead leaves
written by hands with no meter,
So they lead here
these words undear,
where I'm sure, in time, I've beat her,
and here she comes
the lightened sums
and, 'cept her springtime caress, none's sweeter.
On Xmas of 1992 my brother gave me this journal made of recycled paper with a twig pencil. I eventually filled it up sporadically up to 1995. I dug it out, dusted it off, and started looking through it today, May 6th, 2013. I've decided to reproduce the posts online. It's raw and sure to be embarrassing, but I feel enough time has passed that I can distance myself, yet find a very familiar me within these lines and perhaps find the inspiration to take up the pen again..... Thanks, big Bro.
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