How may tales begin with the whiteness of the page like a long indrawn breath
before a difficult admission.  Such statements seem to stand alone; seem to
divide a conversation  the stillness of a pause ­setting the lighting for an
effective vocal snapshot.

The greatest difference here, is that while the difficult subjects are framed so
because the author of said speech searches for the How of what he has to say, I
have no idea what-so-ever of the What I want to say.  Never-the-less, I can
stain the page with the tone of my nicotine tainted breath otherwise subtly
laden with the joys of a full day its coffee, the last meal gently spiced, and
the fruitier scent of hashish.

In the diminutive tenure of our correspondence, our last exchange seems an
indistinct reality documented in the absence of detailed recall.  Ahh, what
cumbersome phraseology!  As I ride the tides of emotion swelling through the
inexorable passage of weeks, I wonder if you are still blue  Such curt missives
as the one you last sent, are like the sharp taste of iron on the tongue And as
I trail off at the last sentence, I would remark that trite references to
relativity have become cliché simply because life is an occasion such as demands
the comment.  I am slow at this hour, and will let the eventual length of this
letter be measured in terms of the time I have spent at the page,  rather than
the amount of ink I have expended (like so much hot air).  So a sample, for you
of a vague flurry of speculations hanging in the air netted like the dance of
an absentminded moth catcher.

The most pressing of conversational options here is ambiguous; I am beset as
other thoughts rise to the surface even as I prioritise one So then, a list of
themes which have coloured the days like sweeping weather patterns visible only
from such a vantage that their code is lost in the reality of dazzling warmth or
shivering greyness which buries the chin on the breast.
This question of love and all that it entails, builds broad holes in my time
passages to another land, of which I see vastly various landscapes Sometimes,
as I enter that realm (so distant from these noisy streets in company the bustle
fades to the irrelavence  of wallpaper) I bask in the comfortable arms of
valley, roll on sunlit plains but on other occasions I face the distance like
staring into a brooding skyline then I can only hazard guesses as to where rain
will descend.  Such is life in a magical land adventures provoke action (who can
know where reaction begins).  One cannot hope to anticipate the deeds of
enchanted creatures save to assume that they will not be common.

Such a smoking issue will burn through many pages, one by laborious one, if the
recounting is not a well tended fire... so I'll leave that can of worms short
and sweet (note the smearing of cliché, like the flavour transference which
used to afflict my school lunches).

The other bursting topic is the ripening of my minstrel nature  I have for such
a long time idealised the ethos of the bard now I validate all the faith I had
in such a dream.  Playing on the streets becomes a sheer joy, as I revel in the
freedom of saying exactly what I think, in indulgent language, through song.  I
identify with a mythical stereotype!  And these shoes are indeed comfortable
even when they are resting quietly at the door a breed of confidence born of
romantic self-concept.  This is the feeling of achieving a dream in the
particular sense that I feel myself fleshing out a form that I would choose in
advance, if my limited scope could conceive of it  I hope at some time in the
future, you may hear The Song  The capitals there indicate that what I sing is
not any single "work", mine or otherwise, but rather is a river that I ride some
days, dip into on others.  Just another smiling aspect of the Force.  That said
I will go, now, to commune with it in the archetypal realms of that dream space
Tonight a marinated somnambulance.

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