The only gift I have to give is wasted
time. It is, yes it is, too late to take back what I wrote yesterday.
As soon as it peppered the moleskine it came to life in a destructive
beginning. And it was good.
It paved an understanding of seasons: it's almost apple.
Apple crisp leaves - crunch.
The sour proximity of the first snowfall, so soon.
All I ask is that you return the favor, send me some spare minutes
of your
time. Anything, check under the couch cushions, just make it quick -
I don't think I can..
I don't want to wait
for the mailman.
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