Whatever way your thoughts go, the way your mind tends to bend, porridge through a harmonica, like that, even if it’s leftovers again, put a lid on them in the microwave, play board games against their relatives, curse the shared sacrifice of their going, pleat their pants, run them ragged and cut away your losses like a hangman’s noose, and make amends with hesitation and fill your pockets up with the marbles of song, and let the going get away, and get lost in them and find the trick inside that keeps them alive, but don’t hold them too long or too dear, because there will for sure be more before the strings of your head are all plucked out, before another Monday comes around to murder you with the dull stuff of ordinariness, with the obligations of ordered existence, and you’ll have a time to have time in with the latest flakes chipped off from the paint of your dreams, and it’ll be something that’s a direction to a nowhere that’ll surely be a somewhere you’ve never been some day.
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