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Mark Cunningham
nightlightnight
Mel Nichols |
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| 7-9 a.m. | ||
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I
already
have a beef: I have no idea what's for dinner. Or when it will be. Or
the exact minute of anything. Traffic stalled in either lane means I
really can't go home again. The tongue turns tepid with the day's first
cliche, and the future's phantom-limb winds its throb. I need to get
somewhere where I can get somewhere. If only today could be like an
Italian comedy, early Fellini, just enough stalls and tangles to make
the final success, well, successful. Later, I'll know what should have
come across clearly, and daydreams can go back and dub in the right
dialog.
 . |
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