Cold pushing through the windows, has its own ways & tempers, morning light has a character, tone, hardly like winter at all.

Thinking about losing myself in the details, it's kind of a gas.

Thinking about saying I was pleased as punch about something I'd honestly say I'm more than pleased about. Was told it was a cliché, tried to explain my preoccupations, my history with these things, my sense of our current cultural predicament & how I try to cope with it, was tempting to bring in Brecht, Deleuze on postwar cinema, etc., etc., but that's not the point.

Point is, everything slips away under our tongues, want to catch things passing by & give a bite or kiss, not another puff of air. Point is, I just keep chattering away anyway, anyway.

OK, OK, not to bring in too many famous dead singers, but here's what Wallace said about it, a thing he said about it, anyway:

"It took dominion everywhere.
The jar was gray and bare.
It did not give of bird or bush,
Like nothing else in Tennessee."

Anyway, so there's this new bird I like, who wouldn't get a bit tongue-tied?

Anyway, anyway.