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.

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