2012-02-22 - 4:05 p.m.
It's a blow when you realize that The World Doesn't Need Another Book. But if you're going to do it, you're going to do it, or something, I suppose. I say this partly because, lately, I've found it easier and easier to begin a book and, a quarter in or halfway or even twenty pages from the end, just stop. I've found that easy to do. And I don't know if I should worry or if this is the natural progression of things. I think it's probably just fine.
Sixty-two degrees here. A bike ride and the deeply green beginnings of manicured flowers popping up, in the office park's beds, at the edges of busy city medians, in forgotten corners where the trash piles up, where the sets of sneakers trudge past. It's about warmth and its opposite, of course, and what happens when the warmth enters, leaves. Temperature and its ingress and egress, off into forever.
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