2017-06-18
gold haze, green fog
Sometimes I wish I was a handsome, well-dressed gentleman courting a pretty lady in the green meadows of a nineteenth-century late-afternoon. The sun slanting in our faces. Laughing hard enough to keep death and evil at bay. A warm hand in my hand.
How did I get so good at failing?
Sure, the universe is expanding. But so is the emptiness.