Sitting outside as the storm gathers, on the outer edge of it: thinking that all things have their edges good or bad, where they begin.
The stream of consciousness is real, our perception is sharpened by stillness. You can drink from it and feel refreshed.
So sadly defined by work, cut out like a bowl.
We are living this life where everyone we encounter is just a version of ourselves, the same as in dreams. How long have we been imagining shapes in the clouds? Or telling stories?
I went down into the quarry and my calves burned coming out.
Mondays are best for jazz.