Priming the creative pump at night, writing in my IPad, random thoughts on various topics. You know, just letting the mind roam free. Hoping the Muse can come to the rescue.
The heavy-set man sits on the low-level wall every day between 11 & 12 Monday through Friday, draped in a fluorescent orange vest, legs dangling, coke to his right, chips to his left, working his way through the sandwich from the cafe run by Joy…
You don’t really “talk” to ghosts, anyway. It’s my experience, which is very, very limited, that it’s all unspoken. Nothing audible passes, though you do hear words, not through ears, more like in the chest, that juncture in the upper thorax, slightly above where the heart lies.
Watching a football game that I don’t really care about. Toggling the news channel. The world’s a mess, but keep hope alive. I can hear the water turned on and off in the apartment next door. A dog barks across the way. The city is waiting for the storm to drop. My stomach gurgles. I feel content.