The thought of not going outside makes me not quite afraid enough and I am angry. Wanna touch the Autumn leaves or just walk down the streets with them. I don’t know any old roads here, and I don’t have fond memories of walks, but I’d like to think if I did and if I did they would be on one and they’d be there.
I read about some imagery today–produced by protesting performance–that I feel would look striking and beautiful, a blossom in memoriam for an artist I’ve frankly never heard of and I, now, have an overwhelming need to see some art. Not on my screen. On a wall, in a venue, alone, quiet. But in the winter I’ll throw paprika on snow and see if it’s as pretty as I imagine it will be.
In two hours I can drink again. And I can go outside, why can’t I.
I’m actually too sad to be angry. I have a blockage from touching anything real now, that’s how it seems.
You’ll regret not looking after your interests while you were alive while you are dead.
You’ll have regrets walking down Old Knock Road, for sure, for sure.
