Anyway, here's todays poetic ponderance:
When I was a child I would always miss the time that it wasn't.
In Summer I'd miss the dark evenings and Christmas time.
In Winter I'd miss the sunshine and the warmth.
Looking back I see that it was a state of perpetual anticipation.
When I was growing up the Winter always made me sullen.
For the most part it was that I missed Summer.
Winter was a time of suppression and shame. Summer was redemption.
We had a special name for Summer rain back then.
It was raining outside as I was cleaning my kitchen. Then it occurred to me:
Summer's no better than Winter at all. Neither give fulfillment.
It's an instinct that cultures and spreads with time: Disdain for the pieces of life.
It rained all through the night, without a name.
