years upon years are put--we don't have real life virgils painting us the way in bright red colors of hell. we don't get to stop midway and point towards a fiery pit and ask what it is or who burns there? but then again we did exchange typewriter pops for keyboard hits.
i don't have a purpose in saying that (or the other) just wrapped up at home today trying to remember how i used to love reading holding my dante that i had started off months ago but got distracted. second chances do sometimes work. put away my ulysses again the other day dissapointed and unworthy. it's either me or--me.
tea and dusting of my kings of leon songs (the ones in which caleb sounds the saddest) and hoping to get some reading done in the night. tomorrow-perhaps a movie or some shopping, lonesome and quiet by choice; maybe a dinner with the fam restless and worried--
aging but non grown.
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