Taking a sabbatical ruined me. It gave me too much time to read, which disabused me of the inclination towards writing, when the hope was its opposite. One who only plays writing does themselves some harm by reading great writers, great writing, though it need not always feel like harm. It rarely does. It overwhelms, marvels - lovely thing for a reader, potentially deadly for a lonelier business.
Have been taking pictures. Never budgeting any time to go through the stuff shot.
The apartment that the above friend is standing in burned down just a few days after this picture was taken, on my friend's birthday (below). We were bouncing around the city for his b-day, we ended up at a planned dinner party. The severe image above was taken in frivolity and celebration, but I saw something other lurking in it. The pictures of that same place burned out, ruined, were haunting for me. Ever recurring, everywhere, forebodings must now materialize.
So much spooks the middling years, horses flashing in the dark, shadows made of action. Certainly such feelings must soon fade into the bliss of time's passing. As if, a dark laugh of life.
Before I become too morose, I'll stop.
So tired. The words of the world, hollow and harrowing.
.
