the past is ten days of laundry sluggish on the carousel in the 5 AM departure hall ~ the past is a volcano of gone faces and bargain basement red letter days p u t r i e n g like photoshop thumbnail confetti when you thought it was a solid mountain base you were reclining on feet up book and a brew ~ and these Days They hurtle thrown thru the prism of the Vanishing Now with anything from laziness to outright rage ~ and i wonder why and i wonder how and i wonder if it would be disrespectful to that sepia flotsam collage to clear it all away forever like it was writers-strike tv when its that what got me here in the 9 AM hinterland of another tuesday mornings typing jag illusion