Everything the where-with-all could do.
When your feet hurt from new shoes.
OK, is this thing kidding any one?
That's me on the radio.
The over looking part is fun sometimes when the weather's nice, but today it's snowing and we have to drive somewhere.
And although I did crush demons in my sleep, I'm a little worried now.
That's the way they do it when they're smoking cigarettes. No, I don't know why but I used to do it too.
Then the swing gang came along.
I don't know the way that I should sell myself.
Maybe it's time to be a little quiet, and wait for someone's question.
The everything is everywhere again.
Go figure.
Unless the doorway opens up, I can't see how the gate will be a useful thing.
There you go.
The table is in front of you.
The walls are freshly painted.
And the sky is just the way you like it, right?
For me, sometimes, that is enough.
Then there is the box with a fancy clock in it.
Anybody need to know the time?
What is this feeling that I have?
Should I take a swim in it?
I didn't really get a chance to talk with you last time.
Jack, you did it your way, and that's all that I am doing here.
Who can say for sure who it is really meant for?
I mean, that's the interesting part.
And until the experts get a hold of it, it's free to be whatever you would like to make of it.
It can be a challenge sometimes too, to only hear your own voice saying it.
Different for some, I know, and familiar in some way too.
It's like music, he once said to me indirectly through the page.
No, he didn't know my name, and I doubt he ever saw my face – I mean, we were never introduced - I don't know him and he does not know me in any ordinary sense, but still, it was as if his words were there for me, because that's the way I read them - and that's why I like to read in general - and the more it's like as if it could be my own voice, saying things that are surprising, the more I like it more.
It's yours to discover without the commentary running along side of it.
Christmas in between the cracks.
And then St Patrick's day.
Go for it.
The monster in your bed is the worry in my head.
"Whatever" is a thing to say.
OK, the difference between these things is nowhere understood, but everyone is betting on the chance that you can keep this up.
The life they think you lead is not the one you felt you had.
The continuity's all wrong.
Verisimilitude is a pointless occupation if you don't secretly pursue the poetry instead, and let it rear its head to ruin the project totally, and yet make something someone might find some beauty in.
Getting deep into somebody's life without the poetry can be an obfuscation of your own.
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