It is true that today I feel like hell, having said that I’m still not above the finer things in life. Thusly I give this picture:
Last night I went to bed with the sweet chirping of the meadowlark. Of course for any poetry enthusiast we know this means I went to bed at about 5:30 am. The details of why shall remain unmentioned. Get your mind out of the gutter perverts. Despite the lack of rest I had a robust day that would have made an outdoors man the likes of Hemmingway or perhaps Bill Dance proud. Upon returning from my swim practice I felt as though I contracted the Bubonic Plague and Typhoid Fever at the same time. Indeed I was suffering from a high grade of heat stroke, a strange head ache and back that felt like it had the very Gordian Knott lodged within it. Where O’ where is my Alexander?!? As with most of my ramblings you may asking yourself is he sane? Why am I reading this rubbish? And further what relevance does this have to do with Writing Communities? In this case not much other than the fact that I may die and I might not be in class next week, or ever again for that matter. I am feeling a third wind coming on. Perhaps this typhoid fever is really just a much-ado about nothing. J
No comments:
Post a Comment