Where were we?
Where am I?
How did I get here?
My choices are narrowing.
J. P. S. Brown says though I crash
a thousand times, some day I will soar.
It’s getting less likely. Time is running out.
Time is the least thing we have of,
Hemingway said. At the end,
he couldn’t write. When that happened,
he killed himself. I can still write.
It makes sense to me. Who says it’s crazy?
What do they know? The sharpness of language
contributed to the imagery but the looseness of structure
left me somewhat confused. When reality is surreal,
surrealism is realism. If an artist can see it and you can’t,
it might be something about you.