Her dissembled tresses cascaded down over her silken shoulders like a latticework of lunacy, textile madness, a bolt to the senses. The structural complexity of her loose garments could not be sussed in that folly of descending locks. Like a waterfall 'twas, with repeating patterns only there to confuse. My concentration had never been so deranged. Close the door.
Am I forever to be a victim of what is going on about, while in truth never knowing here what merits going on about?
Time moves more and more swiftly towards it's conclusion. "The end of all things is near; therefore, be of sound judgment and sober spirit..." - that Book. My spirit has never been as sober as my ability to ignore it...to slosh around and make a muck of what lifeblood I have left.
All my born days, and many of my unborn days in all likelihood, were spent a worrier. I have tried a diet of trying to be more positive, attempting the realization that I have nothing to worry about, and believing that everything will be ok. But I ask you, who would believe such a worrisome twit that would drivel thus?
I have not touched a rusted thimble of alcohol in such a protracted period, an ellipses, as such. The only locale in which I feel comfort while drinking in this old age is upon a seagoing cruise liner. Though I may sound a fool, there are plenty of folks around to tend to one, inebriated or otherwise. It is further unlikely one would be in charge of the helm. Even in the cheapest of accommodations of a ship, one is sovereign. A state room... and worry seems far away. Though the ship could sink; one could fall overboard; those decks -- oh so slippery in the mist -- all but nonexistent in my mind. The worry disappears as daily life (the commonplace routine apprehensions) dissolve into the spinning newsprint of the past. Potted, unbalanced...
by Michael DeVore