Born on Tuesday, married on Monday, birthed on Sunday, and on Saturday, and on Friday, and on Thursday…
There seems to be no end to the song, and it began already so many springs ago.

too many lines
ideas flodding right and up
nothing makes sense
and yet everything does
keep on running
stagnant but permanent
eternal yet mundane
freezing but boiling
Is it a fever of the soul?
unable to express itself
resolves to believing and principles and statements and ideas, finding conections where there should be none

What in the world could he be doing?
Circling back and forth like a vulture.
No point in asking. He wouldn’t be here if he didn’t think me dead meat, and dead meat doesn’t talk back.