Radix Malorum est Cupiditas

There was no way. Felt the strain on the second day only. Seriously. Thought I would throw up just from the wind and cold and the nipping fingers. A busload of people looked out to see the fumbling and the lurching...quite horrible really. But that stretch of road and the eventual making-it-to-the-double doors I had trouble recognizing for a good amount of time. Come on, they all looked the same.

But it's that. Exactly. Came to know it like the back of the hand. And the cold was just another reason to go out or to stay in. And every step was something to write about, think about; remember. I don't even know who won the game that morning but sat there still and looked through the "dial of glass" - the wires touched their faces...but no - this time around, unlike the original context, the mosquito death is in the viewer.

Oh hell, hell...can't stop harping on about it. Really, all that walking to see that mass of, I can't even say it now. Wow. Quiet mornings and all the people in between who come to be a small three seconds of your life. Then there are those who decide to make you have to call the one two minutes away from where you are so you can promise again what you already did in a postcard. That's right.

Walked down that stretch of road - the ships still in the small harbor and the cold still in the air. Walked down that stretch of road - and nothing makes sense even then, even now, even ever.

Reading...Pronounced like the Color...

THIS is the first piece that I’m doing on the new one. Smart of me, having years of affection built up to be messed up by the spilling of half a glass of water. Yes, smart really. But it’s only in losing it that I realized what it was – you only cherish what you’ve lost. The writing. The week without writing was almost too much. Not that I’m saying I didn’t do the pen and paper thing (you have no idea how many pages I COULD fill) but then, that’s a whole different realm of feeling. Emerson could fill ten, eleven pages a morning with pen in hand but could he do as much if he were given a piece of stone to carve his thoughts on? No, inspiration is supposed to be beyond the medium but let’s not kid ourselves by saying the medium doesn’t count.

So here it is, the t=t=ty damn still trying to get used to the new keyboard (I meant to write “typing”). My fingers still remember my ex-Fujitsu. Silly things…though I don’t blame them entirely. But this week has taught me the importance of the sitting and having the flowing of thoughts. I am an antique but at the same time I cannot deny the fact that I can type three hundred words in the time that it takes for me to write fifty. Plus, there is the beauty of the backspace key (even I feel bad if I fill leaves of deadened trees with so much trivial thought I never wanted to think). So this new one. And after losing my first love, I will not make the same mistake again – I will, to have and to hold, from this day forward, for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish – though most likely NOT till death us do part but at least for a really significant length o’ time – my new DELL laptop.