observations:
the fog smells of watermelon
i am writing little zen haiku
walking along in the tall grass
there are many sounds

like the one of the fog rolling in
as slow as molasses
and i am wanting to swallow
thins moment and
dance in the sticky night

it will be time to sleep
outdoors soon
where the air floods our lungs
and we see clearly
because the cold fresh oxygen
(that we are missing)
is the only drug you could ever want

it's all drawing to a close. attitudes are shifting into lighter shades of compassion. we all know that once this is over, it is unlikely we'll ever see one another again. things have grown quiet. hands are pressed gingerly to sides and we pass without words. there are awkward little smiles that we wish we could express what we really mean.

i wonder if we mean anything?

i think this is a way for us to bow out gracefully, instead of like ten thousand firecrackers in the dark of night. granted, the sparks might be beautiful, but i think the way for these years to conclude should be silent and sincere. that's the way it's been, so it's only natural.