Just sitting around, noodling away at this and that. I would like to write a poem, but so far all I have are two lines. A two line poem only works if it ended up that way on purpose. Of course, I did write several more lines. O how they flowed one after another.
They were bad, just bad.
So here I sit, noodling away at this and that, with two lines of a poem that doesn't want me to write anything more just yet.
A poet's life is one of toil and suffering my friends, toil and suffering.
Played the guitar for a while earlier this evening. Beethoven I think said that the guitar is a miniature orchestra. This is true. I myself only have a handle on one small section of the woodwinds, and that's on a good day. Still, I love playing the thing. Or rather, the things - I have several, a twelve string, a classical, a steel string dreadnought, and an electric with three pickups. O, and I have a banjo that rarely sees the light of day, but is so beautiful that I can't part with it.
I'm a regular rock star.
Dozed off for a minute there. Had a whole dream in about two minutes. I was hovering over a vast waterfall, looking straight down into the roiling water and mist hundreds of feet below. There was a certain vertigo, yet I did not fall.
Then I woke up. Should I go to bed I wonder? It's early you know.
No, it's time for tea and some reading.
So ends the most fascinating post in the history of Blogdom.
Peace out.
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