Make no mistake I don't like the cold
for it tinkers with the prospect of getting old.

The feel of wood thrills me, it reminds me of the old tree it used to be.

I am perplexed by the ordinary, like how I can move my hands, or touch my toes.

My note book is full of junk, maybe useful for some. Scribblings of the day, so much undone.

This seat is comfy for now until I get an itch, thoughts run wild, feelings fleeting. What exactly am I meant to be teaching?