I sit at my desk staring at documents that I have no interest in reviewing as I must compile a summarisation.
Stagnation after hours of searing overviews of splendidly inadequate insight has become rigor mortises without continuation.
I deviate from my applied activity and stare at a Facebook profile of a woman that I once sent a friend request to, she is busy elsewhere and I am gearing up for the fight of my life no where near her.
The church is empty, people stay away from dimly lit idealogy.
The newspaper is seldom seen in print.
The wind continues to blow and I see elsewhere that the grass is greener only during the first and last hours of sunlight.
Every road, every river, all of the time; I wish I knew people in the places that I strive to observe, I would learn not to hurry home, I would 'fervently abandon that of which symbolizes the achievements of others.
I would stand high above and watch the waters swirl and churn as the edges of the valleys slowly receded into the thick brown waters.
At some time in the aftermath, I would walk along the new shores in my bare feet and point and speak of the partially submersed objects of conquest that were transformed in the new earth; it's not really a new earth, it is just that for so many people, it is their first time to bat at proclaiming a deity as their transformation to tatters.
'Cotton Eyed Joe' recorded by Bob Wills And His Texas Playboys in 1946
'You'll Find Her Name Written There' recorded by Jim Lauderdale & Ralph Stanley in 2002
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She is busy elsewhere and I am gearing up for the fight of my life no where near her.
