it's raining outside, and the ghost of James Brown flutters lightly in my home. Howling, cackling, telling me about songs and writing. why work on a day like today? why work ever? work? what's that? couldn't the world just be a magical studio? Or will work grace our minds and hearts with sounds and notes never heard before. Fingers get leathery. Face gets leathery. Lines tell the times. Riverbeds of where we've been.
6.4.09
it's raining outside
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