A reason
for every purpose
under heaven
 

Days fall off the calendar like water off a ducks back, pooling into the base of a 3 minute sandglass [the time it takes to reheat a tv-dinner in the microwave]. I've been writing down my thoughts in sporadic bursts of enthusiasm; not without the knowledge that it helps keep the beast at bay.

I flit between cities looking for the comfort of home and find it in moments; In the gape of a wet moist hole that I plunder with depth of my ache and hunger, In the widening of her eyes and the shortening of my breath; In the sunsets, sunrise, sunset.

The places meld together like harmonies in a symphony. I no longer have the questions I did in the beginning - just the acceptance that some things are without reasoning.
 

To everything
There is a season

 
Been a while since I visited the city and the old girl's changed some, just as I have. I find myself walking down streets that echo familiarity but feel foreign and strange. My hands run over the aged bar rail in Lulu's where I stop to have a drink.
The empty bar soon fills with strangers I don't care to speak with or have time for, though I did see one particular face I'd like to see again - perhaps in a more intimate circumstance.

Leaving then - I round a corner a little past the news stand and sit on a bench enjoying the peace, when I hear a faint crying sound. It persists for a while despite my efforts to tune it out.  Eventually it stops and a woman emerges in its general direction.  She'd been the source of the incessant whimpering as was obvious in her blotchy red face and puffy swollen eyelids.