There it is.

What I’ve thrown out the window has come back to me, inconsequentially.

It’s been years and I still admire its beauty.

Delicate, fragile, artistic.

Like a Faberge Egg, and still I harken to lesser lots and grime even while I’ve gotten the sniffles.

I’ve been sick and much sicker.

Bed ridden tosser, and now I’m just one living the easy life, living a double life.

A writer.

One can imagine elsewise and find interest in the monotony or new post.

While I come up with more ideas that don’t hurt me.