Monday, July 26, 2010

a gust of sentimentalism

storm waves piling on top of my deluge. the dreaded memories of foggy sunday mornings, ripening the hollow feeling that nothing can happen. we're born, we play tennis, then we die. in between, we fall in love and we cry. there are some great moments and I'm not even talking about the time spent on tropical vacations, though that amazing corona-commercial-seashore-zen felt wonderful as i laid on a hammock with my woman in my arms. i'm sure you'd agree if you could see me. sometimes my eyes are young and youthful, sometimes i get stoned and laugh like a blissful child and other sometimes I look bloodshot-tired and on the edge of a mundane precipice. my whole line was:

if you don't know what day of the week it is, you're on the right track.