It’s uncanny how the gray mist that’s settled over West Philadelphia seems to suite my thinking this week. When the occasional murkiness of mind seeps in, during the colder months pervading even the sacred treatment of time I have often used to cope … I find little to focus upon, little tangible evidence of celebration (shoots of green amongst the dead barbs of vine). I bury the feelings of pointless static under hours of work and wait for the rain, for the jarring wind, for the tumult of the blizzard. 

2:44 pm  •  6 December 2011  •  3 notes