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She was stopping to
warm with the fog
or something. “Fog
and warmth make
little sense toget-
her,” I’m sure she
was thinking. I ha-
ve been there. Sh-
e says it even, a
few moments lat-
er: “This war-
mth makes no
sense at all. A-
nd I love it.” Lat-
er, wanting to
sleep, I feel like
slapping myself
so hard about it
all. About every-
thing. Flogging
myself in my sol-
itary little apart-
ment with my su-
it still on (having
passed out from
10:00am to 1:00
pm, missing the
free food pantry
that comes ever-
y Tuesday at 11-
:00). Then I start
singing. “Oh, the-
re’s lots to do! Th-
ere’s lots to do! Lots
and lots and lots to
do!” In my frag-
ility, I am singing
as if I am with a
guy who isn’t in-
die at all. Banging
out some thunder.
Strumming to the
radio from storm
to storm. All the
other guy hears is
“wah wah wah &
wah wah wah wah,”
having no idea I’m
thinking “we we we
& we we we we.”
The warmth makes
no sense but I am
nonsense anyway.
It is a lot like war:
when the festival
comes one has to
either get to work
or simply do....
