A profoundly morose, sullen, mournful wail welling within. Fatigue. Still, I see the supreme sky above weeping willows and wandering waters. Yellow wild flowers and tall, tall grass. My heaven is a blue sky, a picture perfect picnic with a cherished lover. I must alter my internal structure to soar aloft into an accelerating cloud.
Too depressing to hope. To depressed to reach. Angst appears like water flooding long dry land. I shudder as the rudder cuts against the wake. Yet another boat born ceaselessly into the past. (Points for knowing that reference.) How, God, am I interpreted by others?
PK, I've sent you another file that I think describes your picnic....
ReplyDeleteI once found this picture in an old Glamour magazine....it was a picture perfect picnic (say that 10 times fast) with a cherished lover. I've often wondered what became of them....
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