In my dream, the tips
of the basil's leaves went black;
the frost was months off.
I'm sick of looking. It's one thing to stare across the river at Indiana, because you can't stop thinking about someone. But the light was always red back then. Metaphorically, I mean. I don't think they had decided on the color of traffic lights yet. I don't even think they had traffic lights. Anyway, like I said, I feel ill. Did you ever think about that phrase before? "Sick of." Tells a nice story, especially when you pair it with a gerund. Am I allowed to use words like "gerund"? Probably not. Fuck it, though. I'm sure I can't say "fuck" either and I just did. It felt good too. Shit, it's getting cold out here. I'm going to head inside and curl up with a chronologically appropriate book. Lad, a Dog, I think. Must be flying off the shelves right now. Which is then, I realize, because I couldn't be writing like this in that "now." Nor would it have been possible for me to slip into this nice Polartec pullover. Whatever. See you later, Sport.