Coffee and biscuits

He's just a little too jovial for this early in the morning.

But truth be told, it's a nice counterpoint to the stale, still air that permeates my heart and thoughts.

Between the noise and the coffee, we may just make a morning of it yet, despite it's inglorious beginning at 4:30.

Or whatever time it was, seen from my allergy-blurred eyes.

There really is no outlet, I come to somewhere over the gravy, other than stumbling forward.

Anything I can think to do, to act upon - tattoos, cuts, color, or similar rash action - I can project far enough ahead to know will not effect the cure they promise.

"How weary, stale, flat and unprofitable seems all the world to me."

Or however Shakespeare put it.

Over the sound system, faint above the clanks of the kitchen, the words of a forgotten 80s ballad start to coalesce.

"Kyrie elision down the road that I must travel."

Mr. Mister give words to the unknownness of my heart.

Kyrie elision.

Christie elision.

Breathe life and flesh into these desicated bones.

Threads

There's a stillness over this crowded, threadbare living room.

She was too shy to volunteer to read, waiting a full beat before agreeing.

But she gained confidence as she progressed through the sentences and paragraphs, a little narrator to this moment in time.

And it feels terrifyingly holy.

A half-breath of regret, drowned in thanksgiving.

All these saints and souls

I really should feel the weight of all these saints and souls. Really, I should.

But today, I only feel the substance of mine.

And mine's busy being vaccinated against lockjaw.

And trying to figure out the meaning of a Scottish Italian.

And all the forms and figure of a discipline I only half understand.

"Man's search for meaning" - or is it reason? - indeed.