Those Daily Mailing Postage Twiding By Hillside Afternooning Forgotten Residue.

I haven't done my monthly playlist in much a while, nor update the blog, nor the talk of discussion, or too much in anything that relates to correct grammar. It's so much with the times and the arc of change, the once refreshing feeling that causes the certain nerve on your backbone to tingle, to make you want to breakdance in public. Or something like that.

But I could only watch and listen, and sit conform and idlely, to the tune of raindrops, the sound of wind blushing over itself, the smell of asphalt and the cars that drive over it. Like Pershing watching WWII or Tom Verlaine watching the 80s. A back-and-forth lunchwagon arriving on the scene twelve hours too late. Time passes so much when you ignore sunlight, as the moon hopes to be helpful, but can only sigh as he can only watch.

I can only dance at thoughts like this, in a tune soft as silence, and trails on the dirt and grass I travel over. I'd hate the feeling that I accept, as much as becoming comfortable with drowning when your left finding your way how to swim.

I'd wish I could relate.
I'd wish I could relate to anyone.
But even when she smiles, I'll fumble.