Different dates have their relevance. Their sentimentality. In fact, almost everything substantial and abstract has been the muse for a drawing or a poem. What does it mean for a man when almost any given object holds at its core a deeper meaning? I think of June and it almost brings tears of happiness. I see a ripped page in a journal and it brings the most profound sense of suffocation and failure. I see rust and think only of her. Does this make a man weaker or stronger? In the end it doesn't matter because I love it with all my heart, this path. I have so many regrets and so many weaknesses. But those in the past are where they belong, presently bringing me quiet strength and reminding me to be a better person.
So many things... it's all so rich.
Tiger lilies.
A sleepy voice on the phone.
Street lamps.
The smell of warm vanilla and sugar.
The movie from the Stephen King novel, "Christine."
Small keys.
A roller coaster. ANY roller coaster.
Squaats (yes, I spelled that right).
The colors red-orange and dark brown when seen together.
Tall, narrow towers. Standing apart and on their own.
The cliffs of the southern coast of Tasmania.
Hazel eyes.
I will lose myself in your eyes...
"And I in yours." she cries.
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