I know it?
Fruit Loops become
I'm feeling kind of loopy.
I've started a chicken roasting. It's seasoned with olive oil and tarragon. That aroma is one of my favorite cooking smells.
The weather can't make up its mind.
Listening to music and thinking about several different writing projects.
Thinking, too, about sex, feedback loops and Borromean knots.
Meaning resolves into dissolving shades, various tonalities and disintegrating ghosts.
I'm lonely. I'm drinking Sicilian wine. There are stacks of books, guitar instruction manuals, and magazines around me. The electric guitar and amp are six feet away from me in the corner behind a pedestal that was used at M's wedding. The acoustic guitar is in its case in the living room. It is blocked from my view by the protruding edge of our piano.