Maybe it is like this?

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That with skies and puddles, red earth, crumpled napkins, careless hellos, unfinished breakfasts, there isn't too much to a day other than a giant, phantasmagorical Rorscharch test. The late nights is when I'm staring hard at the smudge that the day arranged for me. I assign a meaning and then I sleep. To do the very same thing the next day. Maybe, in summation, at the end of my life, I will see those hard thought meanings speckle the expanse of the wings of the Rorscharch butterfly that will fly away.

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Anonymous said…
When you publish your book of thoughts and poems - I will be first in line.
12:40 AM
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