Tuesday, November 04, 2003
Piles of nonsense sink the boat of my make-shift life. She is withered. She is broken down. If only the day of the champange bottle would return. When I broke that bubbly over her bough and the wind whipped her sails for the first white time. This make-shift break neck speed of life would return to the moment just before she sailed. The waves could be forgotten. The punishing storm would be lost in that stillness.