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Friday, February 13, 2004
The King has Come. We call it the Advent.
Hello, Blog.
We've grown somewhat distant. And although we meet in passing this night, forsooth, here comes a topic more appealing than this meta-chatter which we have presently pursued.
The lens, it can only focus on one depth. One looks to the distance, and the nearby assumes a fuzz. I was waiting for my toast, but the toaster, it was unplugged. I looked towards the future, and the sirens at hand crept up offering not employment but mere distraction. Ah, the sirens have become pursuers these days! I adjust the lens. Briefly, I see a face from the past, not too distant, never quite familiar. She is but one of three and I venture on Saturday to Massachusetts, celebrating 85 years of my grandmother's existence, nay, life(!), although I have experienced only 23.5 and have witnessed and remembered far fewer. I hear muffled sounds in the next room. Could it be romance? It might as well be cattle, for "moo" is all I hear. The moo of passion.
My toast is well-done. Too well, in fact, parched. The door opens as one cow leaves. And the other returns to tell of the sweet cud of discovery. Passed through three stomachs, it arrives as a half-nutritious testimony of triumph. A leap of fath made, or were you shoved? The result is the same for now, but the lesson learned may be none. The language of love is that of Romance, perhaps Italian, perhaps French. Call me a temporary German, for to sleep and make do describes every item on the itinerary. To dream is but a sidenote, under-appreciated.
We've grown somewhat distant. And although we meet in passing this night, forsooth, here comes a topic more appealing than this meta-chatter which we have presently pursued.
The lens, it can only focus on one depth. One looks to the distance, and the nearby assumes a fuzz. I was waiting for my toast, but the toaster, it was unplugged. I looked towards the future, and the sirens at hand crept up offering not employment but mere distraction. Ah, the sirens have become pursuers these days! I adjust the lens. Briefly, I see a face from the past, not too distant, never quite familiar. She is but one of three and I venture on Saturday to Massachusetts, celebrating 85 years of my grandmother's existence, nay, life(!), although I have experienced only 23.5 and have witnessed and remembered far fewer. I hear muffled sounds in the next room. Could it be romance? It might as well be cattle, for "moo" is all I hear. The moo of passion.
My toast is well-done. Too well, in fact, parched. The door opens as one cow leaves. And the other returns to tell of the sweet cud of discovery. Passed through three stomachs, it arrives as a half-nutritious testimony of triumph. A leap of fath made, or were you shoved? The result is the same for now, but the lesson learned may be none. The language of love is that of Romance, perhaps Italian, perhaps French. Call me a temporary German, for to sleep and make do describes every item on the itinerary. To dream is but a sidenote, under-appreciated.
