I sit here quietly enraged same like the calm front that has hit on the western range of my property. I am a story teller who has no stories and a ear filled with melody for the summer rains. The greens will need trimming and sculpting soon. The pigeons will arrive to the corners of the property to breed and propagate the flock. Sometimes it's full of **** and sometimes it's not. Mostly after the squall procedes over from the lake is the promanant time of the winter cleaning over that portion of the foothills.

Now here where I live, in the adequate and humble living quarters of mine, there is voices that travel on wind breezes that wander through my jealousies. They bring the news like airmail every so often. But mostly news of bills collectors spinning in their office chairs furiously at the amount of **** that is nessecary for this part time profession.

Sometimes during the night my eyes go bad and I often wonder when they will get suitable for work again. I've been slacking a bit on the work and more on the suitability of my mind for processes like building a fireplace. You know, the theory of it all.

Hmmm....