with a drop into the bucket, i’m worn thin of serenades. and it seems lightly on the ridge of cold winters and warm julys looked forward to. ah, and but where will they be spent, you wonder. and in wondering, the affidavits drift and your life is torn from spiritual to legal and the loving sways with the winds of april. may will bring flowers for your pilgrimage, i hope. and in hoping, i regret to inform you that i know not what i do. and i keep forgetting people know what i’m doing and i keep forgetting no one really knows who i am and i keep forgetting i’m always myself and i keep forgetting to say remember and not don’t forget.
but please don’t forget.
but maybe you don’t know who you are.
and maybe you don’t know that i am certain of who i am.
which is nobody.
nobody but the work i produce.
which might be exactly how it should be.
and so it goes.