the still life

No cure for my roving focus

I've tried the liquid waiting rooms, but Godot is not coming.

I've tried the viddies, the eyelights. An oasis, each. And empty.

I'm up for the window shows in autumn, the trees, their leafish weeping. Which is odd, as a phrase. But these aren't my dervishes for Liz, these are just afternoon traipses. You could just skip through this, my friend, and look out of the window to your right...save me the raving.
I'll sleep now, and dream of little doors. With tiny knobs and smaller hinges.

*whock*