The Discarding of Self

The night is absolutely beautiful except for the crowd. Gone are my long, cold nights of suffering winter. She leaves behind her heated breath but the beast is asleep.

God, I must have cried for half the day today! Too much of everything and the silent film stars have started to speak, but nobody likes their thick European accents or oddly pitched voices and so they die. The heroes are dead, and I sense that I will be equally discarded when nature is revealed.

But there will always be memory... those silver scraps of painted lips and glassy shaded eyes-- those dramatic head cocks and thin, think moustaches.

But things are not so bad. I am at least feeling like there is some hope, some room for change, some SOMETHING because the pendulum has made a rather rapid trip to the bottom and it must go back the other way.

Anyway, must go to choir.