home
For those who might survive these dark ages, that paper and ink may continue to float beyond economic oblivion, to thee I write. Out of necessity the downtrodden young man searches for something to do just to keep the roof over his head. Nothing for food. Nothing for decadent heat. Just a little something to pay off the police, the property law and a history of landowners. While she is off to play footsie with a Tootsie and look at modern art. We call home a cave above ground, but the windows are blinded because we do not want to be seen looking out and before we know it we can only ever be looking within.
Well there are so many of those rainy days burning a whole in the pocket that I go down to the marketplace every day to collect jetsam timber and that is where I see them, the escaped ideas of thoughtfulness. I would say something to them, about them to someone, but I have all those fireplaces to get back to, attend to and feed with what I can carry of this dry wood.