This is one morose blog (like all the previous ones). This is a clumsy spittoon for times when the bad taste overwhelms the mouth and refuse to be gulped down. I think the weather is changing, the sunshine more golden and late evening walks pleasantly shivery and then and then the long afternoons of flavoured tea and conversations at Dolly’s but I won’t know anything about these till Monday and these last few days, the last few days, hours, minutes, seconds are the worst. I want to sleep but I must listen to hours of music and analyse them and read Wikipedia articles on them and fortify myself against their attack and I have never, never, never hated (some of) my favourite music more.

And then all of December I have nothing to do, nothing to dooooo.

And this is such a juvenile post. How old are you, writer? Fifteen?

4 thoughts on “57”

  1. Oh, but you musn’t hate your favourite music for too long! When your favourite music takes revenge, the world dies.

  2. i can invent things to do. are you amenable to traveling? anywhere but the mountains?

Express. Engage. Etcetera.

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