I wear it like faded old jeans that match with every top I love.
Why do I not yet write like a normal person. My words are all muttered together as if I understand why the "Dead Poet's Society" could thoroughly enjoy being fictionally dead.
Maybe I don't know, who would ever know?
Hello I say in my mind with a smile.
Somewhere the comfort of human beings co-exists.
Is this where he speaks from, that "dead poet's society" type of place?
I wonder and then also wonder where on earth could this be acceptable. Is it a point like that trying to be proven?
I am ashamed of myself as much as I am proud.
The way it trickles down to each and every one of us, or maybe like ants building up. Dealing with decisions we might not understand but endure, as if we are German people during the time of anti-Jews. Similar to Covid, what do you choose?
I yearn for the presence of my dog.
Those dogs were nice to be merciful to me. They were happy when they realized I gave them water, and they drank the whole bowl at once while I watched them. It wasn't until my son showed me a clip about the capabilities of a pit bull and German shepherd when I realized why nobody was around.
Gee, thanks God, I ponder.
I walk to the car and see the trash can knocked over after walking out of the gate. I know the bear was there, must have just been there when I heard the dog barking. I look around, get my glasses and walk back inside.
Hello, hello, hello God. Thanks. Thank you, thank you so much.
