Pretty much same here as ever. Eye driplets falling from the sky, gasping minerals (primarily D) out from under our skin and bringing them back up to the Golden God. Envisioning Abbey and Tranströmer in a dog fight: knocking over pots and pans, the disassembled smoothie maker banging back into the inevitable stainless steel basin. Ed holds up a mug he's found ('KEEP BOULDER WEIRD'), and brings it down on the Swede, who turns into a field of wheatgrass, coating our couch and bookshelves. More than we could ever blend up, if we ate that kind of thing. Drab, all of it. But the wet, they say, keeps life alive.
So we'll keep to the windows, then, and the vertical ant race outside. Every third Sunday, I'll hold my hands up to the sky. I know you know what I'm talking about, W. Don't pretend like you don't.
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