As Days Pass

As Days Pass What happens to the day? Not long ago it was morning and I was struggling valiantly to read Norman Mailer’s “Harlot’s Ghost,” 1380 pages didn’t he know when to stop? That is why I like Hemingway, he was so mercifully short. I was thinking of this when sitting in the local bar nursing a whisky with ice water, but then all the farmhands came they were noisy, played cards…so I gulped down my drink and left. At home I put Norman back on the book shelf, decided to leave him for a long winter evening; and since it doesn’t get dark till nine, I drove towards the sunset and wrote a true ghost story about a sunray that danced at midnight and picked flowers for his beloved, a moonbeam. Alas, in nights blooms are grey or colorless, she refused his offer, his ardour too hot for her… she flew back to moon.