Sunday, August 28, 2011
I have not taken the mail. No matter how many have roosted on the branches of my subconscious, in the trees, on my roof, on the roofs of my neighbors that were never there, I have never taken the mail. There was nary a problem to this. I surmise the villagers that lived here in centuries past believed me to be clinically insane; pigeons are now flocking in the gardens. There are feathers fluttering daintily in the dens, in my workspace; alas, I abhor them with all of my heart while I am, too, infatuated, and I refuse to look at them and also collect them.