An adventure is, by nature, a thing that comes to us. It is a thing that chooses us, not a thing that we choose. ~G.K. Chesterton
Greetings and Salutations!
Welcome to the longest-running* yet least-read** blog on the internet!Here you'll find me writing about all the things that I write about, which strikes me, just now, as somewhat recursive. In any case, enjoy :)
* not true ** probably true
Thursday, December 13, 2012
Rain-slick streets throwing back neon smears. Eyes that have seen near-endless iterations. The Street (as opposed to the street) moves through the same tired dance of commerce. Who's buying, who's selling, what's for sale, it's all been done and done long before my zygote days, and will be done and done long after I am unwise, unvaliant dust. Everything seems just a touch worn, grubby, tired. Including me. Or maybe more than a touch. I want to scrub-- not my soul. Maybe my aspirations. Maybe my faith. Maybe I need to burnish my regard for my fellow men. And women.