History is for historians. Life’s for living. I am a liver. I was commanded by the sacred alarm clock’s electric droning to pull my head up off the pillow. And so it begins. Books are food. Breath is life. Radio is existential. Faded flower print curtains, hot cuppa tea, accumulation of outward-looking ideas leading to a continuation of the week’s insistence and incongruousness. Per usual. We’re all living on a blue planet, and I often wonder if we would’ve chosen another color, if we’d been handed a list of choices, floating up in outer space sensing the true nature of our expanding universe. Strangely, when broadcasting out into the whole wide world, the radio has no say whatsoever in what goes out over its sound waves. While driving in the salt air breeze, Gulls swoop and scavenge during happy-go-lucky car commercials. Don’t the manic voices on radio commercials sound like hysterical historians, sent from the future? Passing beneath gull’s wings and car antennas, feeling the warm wind rolling in from the Gulf of Mexico. Moving closer to waves of white, I felt the miniature molecules land on my skin. Someday, somehow, like long lost lovers, the horizon and the shoreline may meet up again.
Lovely!
Beautiful