Saturday, December 29, 2012

Thousand: Nine Hundred Seventy-Seven

there yet, at least we’re here. Wherever we are is here. There’s no getting away from that. You made the coffee just the way I like it. Out of leprechauns. Sweetened with the milk of angels. I’ll be up all night. But in a good way. It will give me time to think. The world will be quiet, all distractions hidden away. The ship is late. Perhaps it is adrift. Can we get the news? Turn up the radio. All I hear is crackle, the crackle of the fire. It’s a very old fire. It will burn until it runs

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