So back to three, as I observe the lie. There is that one hat. It's warm, only fit for winters colder than what I ever even face, but it does the job for the winter here too. But it's June.
Prayers make God laugh as they resound off drywall and try to get through siding that's rotting from the bottom up. I'm glad to offer up a chuckle, and feel the reality of what so many doubt, so deep inside that it only comes out like so. Or am I just hungry?
Indeed, hungry. Thirsty. Tired of having to deal with a toilet that likes to run on even more than I do, wasting water like I waste time.
I disagree with myself, of course, at such wasted times. Wasted? How to say that? It flows, channels life bigger than I can see. For all I know I'm playing my part perfectly well even now, looking around for a free-standing place to hang things in preparation for a time I can only imagine coming. Not with this good start to another hot summer. Tall grass proves it -- we're growing here, vibrant accord with rainfall that, at the time, brings us somewhat down with its dull gray.
No matter -- I pay a talented musician to cut the grass every so often. He seems to enjoy the sweat as a respite from something called boredom -- something with which I'm scarcely familiar. I'd cut it myself, but it inevitably dulls the scissors and senses, sneezing as I do with all that chlorophyl mocking me and my stomache.
Hungry? it teases. What about all that energy raining down on the sunny days?
So I ignore it. Its taunting can look back and see me stepping on it (careful to avoid doggie-doo, even if the best care taken in that vein is to avoid the thought of it), even if I marvel at the talent.
I only wish I was green with envy/chlorophyl, just to escape this hunger. Places to go, places to be, places to put things. I'm getting tired of repetition.