Welcome back to Thirty-One, the project where I attempt to write something every day for a year. If you missed any previous issues, you can find them by clicking here.
Day Seventy-Eight (July 13th) A shy forest doesn’t care if anyone hears when it falls to pieces Day Seventy-Nine (July 14th) Words to describe the Florida summer: hot humid sweltering sweaty steamy gross sultry sticky muggy melting stifling oppressive soupy swampy thick lazy Day Eighty (July 15th) Thoughts dissipate in the heat like steam rising from blistering asphalt. I can’t hold on to any notion long enough to examine the ideas percolating within. Day Eighty-One (July 16th) There isn’t enough time to listen to all the songs of longing and loneliness, just as there will never be enough time to read all the poems and tales of adventure. If only I could consume art the way I devour dinner and dessert. I would ingest one piece after another, savoring the salty and the sweet. Flavors would swirl in eddies from my nose to my tongue, and all the while, they would become me as they passed from without to within. Day Eighty-Two (July 17th) When wind ripples across a pond, it’s like seeing a ghost. Something usually invisible has decided to make itself seen. Day Eighty-Three (July 18th) drip, drip, drip, drip, drip clear skies, yet the rain remains sunshine memories Day Eighty-Four (July 19th) I don’t want to see precise shapes and defined lines piercing sharply in the night. The darkness is meant for blurred edges and fuzzy forms. The unknown blends with dreams and whispered desires.
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81! I am loving all of these but I have a weakness for dessert.