Half-made
Between sleep and wake, unwritten words haunt my soul and unborn numbers devour my sanity. Render me restless. Somewhere between silences, there exists a mirage of sound, and perhaps this is where I am.
For some reason, the piano seems louder, bolder at night. My street is always fairly quiet, so I doubt it's due to the change in noise patterns outside. Perhaps light diffuses sound when darkness pins it down. I get nervous playing music too late in the evening; the music no longer seems my own.
I've taken time off work these few days, rediscovering my father's company while he visits for a time. Days of blessed sunshine and shadowed chill, I have soup and I eat ice cream.
There are things to be done - boxes, always boxes, but I'm making progress. My must-do list is very slowly shrinking, whilst items on my to-do list seem to mate and reproduce. Many words half-written, gifts half-fashioned, songs half-sung. Possibilities half-made.
Blissful days like blank canvasses.
11 July 2002, Thursday, 10:21 PM
Alter ego of dandruff
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