wondering if there's something in the water: the young-guns are afflicted. i remembered, last night in the pouring rain (out of the rain, though) a time when it poured from doorstep to doorstep, soaking puddles in through my shoes.
what does a celibate monkstress say to the drought, the sunshine oilrainbows on the steaming asphalt? with one gray dread on the top of her head, she scribbles pages of documents to whoknows where. she says, this: she's not on the global warming bandvagon, she ain't havin no kids, but my kids are, she says, and i need to worry.
why talk about the weather? well, everyone wants to: tell me how the puddle splashed and fell right down into the place where you separate at the bottom.
