I will do a little art.
I remain a stubborn, willful man. Ignorant, prone to making the same mistakes over and over. Blind. Fear-driven. Lazy and indulgent.
But I tear at the walls around my heart.
Would I really destroy them?
Or do I just like the exercise, knowing they’ll grow back?
Now I aim to lay out on the back deck in the dappled shade of the Japanese Maple and read “The Chosen Soldier” by Dick Couch while I sip from a small glass of frozen Ketel One and listen to the mad birdsong that fills the air in our yard.
I suggest you do likewise, in the manner of your own choosing.
We will too soon cease our burning.
(PS- I think this is some shit-hot art, personally.)