Journal

Bound in supple molded leather, nondescript, are manmade pages with rough jagged edge; between their lines my unkempt thoughts are kept, Whatever thoughts I fancy or things I fear, however vain my conceit to try and make them art. Long past when mold becomes my mantle set, and my form feeds the growing sedge, after even up the wind my bones has swept, the words herein will still inhere; and so, apart from pulse I will exist, in part. But it’s true import none shall see: that you once gifted this to me.